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THE 


-FINAL     MEMORIALS    • 

OF  . 

CHAELES  LAMB. 


BY 

THOMAS  NOOX   TALFOURD, 

ONE   OF   HIS   RXECUT0R3 


NEW    YORK: 
DERBY    &   .lACKSOX,   110    NASSAU   STREET. 

1 859. 


\y 


4 


TO 

WILLIAM  WORDSWOPJII,  ESQ.,  D.C.L, 

POET    LAUREATE, 

THESE  FINAL   MEMORIALS 

OP  ONE   WHO   CnERISUED    HIS    FKIESDSUIP   AS   A   COMFORT    AMIDST   GRIEFS 

AND   A   GLOUy   AMIDST   DEPRESSIONS,    ARE 

WITH   AFFECTION   AND    RESPKCT 

INSCRIBED 

BT   ONE   WHOSE    PRIDE    IS    TO    HAVE    BEEN    IN    OI.D    TIME    HIS    EARNEST   ADMIRER, 

AND   ONE   OF   WDOSB    FONDEST    WISHES   IS 

THAT   HE   MAY   BE   LONG   SPARED   TO  ENJOY    FAME,    RARELY    ACCORDED 

TO   THE  LIVING. 


PREFACE. 


Nearly  twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  the  Letters  of  Charles 
Lamb,  accompanied  by  such  slight  sketch  of  his  Life  aa  might 
link  them  together,  and  explain  the  circumstances  to  which  they 
refer,  were  given  to  the  world.     In  the  Preface   to  that  work, 
reference  was  made  to  letters  yet  remaining  unpublished,  and  to 
a  period  when  a  more  complete  estimate  might  be  formed  of  the 
singular  and  delightful  character  of  the  writer  than  was  there 
presented.    That  period  has  arrived.    Several  of  his  friends,  who 
mi<Tht  possibly  have  felt  a  moment's  pain  at  the  publication  of 
some  of  those  effusions  of  kindness,  in  which  they  are  sportively 
mentioned,   have  been  removed  by   death;    and  the  dismissal 
of  the  last,  and  to  him  the  dearest  of  all,  his  sister,  while  it  has 
brought  to  her  the  repose  she  sighed  for  ever  sinco  dhe  lost  him, 
has  released  his  biographer  from  a  difficulty  which  has  hitherto 
prevented  a  due  appreciation  of  some  of  his  noblest  qualities. 
Her  most  lamentable,  but  most   innocent  agency  in  the  event 
which  consigned  her  for  life  to  his  protection,  forbade  the  intro- 
duction of  any  letter,  or  allusion  to  any  incident,  which  might 
ever  in  the  long  and  dismal  twilight  of  consciousness  which  she 
endured,  shock  her  by  the  recurrence  of  long  past  and  terrible 
sorrows  ;  and  the  same  consideration  for  her  induced  the  sup- 
pression of   every  passage  which  referred  to  the  malady  with 
which  she  was  through  life  at  intervals  afflicted.     Although  her 
1*  (v) 


VI  PKEFACE. 

death  had  removed  the  objection  to  a  reference  to  her  intermit- 
tent suffering,  it  still  left  a  momentous  question,  whether  even 
then,  when  no  relative  remained  to  he  affected  by  the  disclosure, 
it  would  be  right  to  unveil  the  dreadful  calamity  which  marked 
one  of  its  earliest  visitations,  and  which,  though  known  to  most 
of  those  who  were  intimate  with  the  surviving  sufferers,  had 
never  been  publicly  associated  with  their  history.  When,  how- 
ever, I  reflected  that  the  truth,  while  in  no  wise  affecting  the 
gentle  excellence  of  one  of  them,  casts  new  and  solemn  lights 
on  the  character  of  the  other  ;  that  while  his  frailties  have 
received  an  ample  share  of  that  indulgence  which  he  extended 
to  all  human  weaknesses,  their  chief  exciting  cause  has  been 
hidden;  that  his  moral  strength  and  the  extent  of  his  self- 
sacrifice  have  been  hitherto  unknown  to  the  v.'orld  ;  I  felt  that  to 
develope  all  which  is  essential  to  the  just  appreciation  of  his 
rare  excellence,  was  due  both  to  him  and  to  the  public.  While 
I  still  hesitated  as  to  the  extent  of  disclosure  needful  for  this 
purpose,  my  lingering  doubts  were  removed  by  the  appearance 
of  a  full  statement  of  the  melancholy  event,  with  all  tbe  details 
capable  of  being  collected  from  the  new.spapers  of  the  time,  in 
the  "  British  Quarterly  Eeview,"  and  the  diffusion  of  the  pas- 
sage, extracted  thence,  through  several  other  journals.  After 
this  publication,  no  doubt  could  remain  as  to  the  propriety  of 
publishing  the  letters  of  Lamb  on  this  event,  eminently  exaltinw 
the  characters  of  himself  and  his  sister,  and  enabling  the  reader 
to  judge  of  the  sacrifice  which  followed  it. 

I  have  also  availed  myself  of  the  opportunity  of  introducing 
some  letters,  the  objection  to  publishing  which  has  been  obvia- 
ted by  the  same  great  healer,  time;  and  of  adding  otheis  which 
I  deemed  too  trivial  for  the  public  eye,  when  the  wlmlu  wealih 
of  his  letters  lay  before  me,  collected  by  Mr.  Muxou  fium   the 


PREFACE.  vii 

distinguished  correspondents  of  Lamb,  who  kindly  responded  to 
his  request  for  permission  to  make  the  public  sharera  in  their 
choice  epistolary  treasures.     The  appreciation  which  the  letters 
already  published,  both  in  this  country  and  in  America— per- 
baps  even  more  remarkable  in  America  than  in  England — have 
attained,  and  the  interest  which  the  lightest  fragments  of  Lamb's 
correspondence,  which  have  accidentally  appeared  in  other  quar- 
ters, have  excited,  convince  me  that  some  letters  which  I  with- 
held, as  doubting  their  worthiness  of  the  public  eye,  will  not 
now    be  unwelcome.     There    is,    indeed,    scarcely    a    note  — a 
„o;jei_(^as  he  used   to   call  his  very  little  letters)  Lamb  ever 
wrote,  which  has  not  some  tinge  of  that  quaint  sweetness,  some 
hint  of  that  peculiar  union  of  kindness  and  whim,  which  distin- 
guish  him  from  all  other  poets  and  humorists.     I  do  not  think 
the  reader  will  complain  that— with  some  very  slight  esceptious, 
which    personal   considerations  still    render   necessary — I  have 
made   him  a  partaker  of  all  the  epistolary   treasures  which  the 
generosity  of  Lamb's    correspondents  placed  at  Mr.    Moxon's 
disposal. 

When  I  first  considered  the  materials  of  this  work,  I  purposed 
to  combine  them  with  a  now  edition  of  the  former  volumes  ;  but 
the  consideration  that  such  a  conrse  would  be  unjust  to  the  pos- 
sessors of  those  volumes,  induced  me  to  present  them  to  the 
public  in  a  separate  form.  In  accomplishing  that  object,  I  have 
felt  the  difficulty  of  connecting  the  letters  so  as  to  render  their 
attendant  circumstances  intelligible,  without  falling  into  repeti- 
tion of  passages  in  the  previous  biograpliy.  JMy  attempt  ha3 
been  to  make  these  volumes  subsidiary  to  the  former,  and  yet 
complete  in  themselves;  but  I  fear  its  imperfections  will  require 
much  indulgence  from  the  reader.  The  italics  and  capitals 
used  in  printing  the  letters  are  always  those  of  the  vritcr;  and 


vin 


PREFACE. 


the   little    passages  sometimes   prefixed   to   letters,    have    been 
printed  as  in  the  originals. 

In  venturing  to  introduce  some  notices  of  Lamb's  deceased 
companions.  I  have  been  impelled  partly  by  a  desire  to  explain 
any  allusion  in  the  letters  which  might  be  misunderstood  by 
those  who  are  not  familiar  with  the  fine  vagaries  of  Lamb', 
affection,  and  partly  by  the  hope  of  giving  some  faint  notion  of 
the  entire  circle  with  which  Lamb  is  associated  in  the  recollec- 
tion  of  a  few  survivors. 
T  T  ,  T.  N.  T, 

London,  July,  i84g. 


FINAL   MEMORIALS. 


Chapter  I. 

Page 

LETTERS  OF  LAMB  TO  COLERIDGE,  IN  THE  SPRING  AND  SUMMER  OP  1796  .      .      13 


Chapter  II. 

LETTERS    OF    LAMB    TO    COLERIDGE,  CHIEFLY   RELATING   TO    THE    DEATH   OF 

MRS.  LAMB,  AND    MISS    LAMB'S    SUBSEQUENT    CONDITION      .  .  .45 

Chapter  III, 

LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE  AND  MANNING  IN  LAMB'S  FIRST  YEARS  OF  LIFE  WITS 

HIS  SISTER— 1797  TO  1800 70 

Chapter  IV. 

MISCELLANEOUS    LETTERS    TO    MANNING,    COLERIDGE,    AND    'WORDSWORTH — 

1800  TO  1805  90 

Chapter  V. 

LETTERS  TO  HAZLITT,  ETC., — 1805  TO  1810 117 

Chapter  VI. 

LETTERS     TO    WORDSWORTH,    ETC.,     CHIEFLY    RESPECTING    WORDSWORTH'S 

POEMS— 1815  TO  1818 138 


(is) 


FINAL  MEMORIALS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 
CHAPTER  I. 

tETTERS    OF   LAMB    TO    COLEKIDOE,    IN   THE    SPRING    AND    SUMMER   OF    1796 

In  the  year  1795,  Charles  Lamb  resided  with  his  father, 
mother,  and  sister,  in  lodgings  at  No.  7,  Little  Queen-street, 
Holborn.     The  father  Avas  rapidly  sinking  into  dotage; 
the  mother  suffered  under  an  infirmity  which  deprived  her 
of  the  use  of  her  limbs ;  and  the  sister  not  only  undertook 
the  office  of  daily  and  nightly  attendance  on  her  mother, 
but  sought  to  add  by  needle-work  to  their  slender  resources 
Their  income  then  consisted  of  an  annuity  which  Mr.  Lamb 
4ie  elder  derived  from  the  old  Bencher,  Mr.  Salt,  whom  he 
had  faithfully  served  for  many  years ;  Charles's  salary, 
which,  being  that  of  a  clerk  of  three  years'  standing  m 
the  India  House,  could  have  been  but  scanty  ;  and  a  small 
payment  made  for  board  by  an  old  maiden  aunt,  who  re- 
sided with  them.     In  this  year  Lamb,  being  just  twenty 
years  of  age,  began  to  write  verses-partly  incited  by   he 
example  of  his  old  friend,  Coleridge,  whom  he  regarded 
with  as  much  reverence  as  affection,  and  partly  inspired 
by  an  attachment  to  a  young  lady  residing  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Islington,  who  is  commemorated  m  his  early 
verses  as  "  the  fair-haired  maid."     How  his  love  prospered 


14'' 'c  t',''  i  ,''l  '',rite^  <IkIEM<0'illALS    OF   LAMli. 

we  cannot  ascertain ;  but  y>  c  know  how  nobly  that  love, 
and  all  hope  of  earthly  blessings  attcndent  on  such  an  af- 
fection, were  resigned  on  the  catastrophe  which  darkened 
the  following  year.     In  the  meantime,  his  youth  was  lonely 
—rendered  the  more  so  by  the  recollection  of  the  society 
of  Coleridge,  who  had  just  left  London— of  Coleridcrc  in 
the  first  bloom  of  life  and  genius,  unshaded  by  the  mysti- 
cism which  it  afterwards  glorified— full  of  boundless  ambi- 
tion, love,  and  hope  !     There  was  a  tendency  to  insanity 
in  his  family,  which  had  been  more  than  once  developed 
m  his  sister ;  and  it  was  no  matter  of  surprise  that  in  the 
dreariness  of  his  solitude  it  fell  upon  him  ;  and  that,  at  the 
close  of  the  year,  he  was  subjected  for  a  few  weeks  to  the 
1    restraint  of  the  insane.     The  wonder  is  that,  amidst  all 
the  difficulties,  the  sorrows,  and  the  excitements  of  his 
\  succeeding  forty  years,  it  never  recurred.     Perhaps  the 
true  cause  of  this  remarkable  exemption— an  exemption 
the  more  remarkable  when  his  afiiictions  are  considered  in 
association  with  one  single  frailty— will  be  found  in  the 
sudden  claim  made  on  his  moral  and  intellectual  nature 
by  a  terrible  exigency,  and  by  his  generous  answer  to  that 
chum ;  so  that  a  life  of  self-sacrifice  was  rewarded  by  the 
preservation  of  unclouded  reason. 

The  following  letter  to  Coleridge,  then  residing  at  Bris- 
tol, which  is  undated,  but  which  is  proved  by  circumstances 
to  have  been  written  in  the  spring  of  1796,  and  which  is 
probably  the  earliest  of  Lamb's  letters  which  have  been 
preserved,  contains  liis  oato  account  of  ihis  seizure.  Al- 
lusion to  the  same  event  will  be  perceived  in  two  letters 
of  the  same  year,  after  which  no  reference  to  it  appears  iu 
his  correspondence,  nor  can  any  be  remembered  in  hia 
conversations  with  his  dearest  friends. 


LETTEES  TO  COLEKIDGE.  1^ 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"1795. 


<.  T^ear  C ,  make  yourself  perfectly  easy  abont  May. 

I  paia  hu  bill  «hen  I  sent  your  clothes.     I  ^'as  flusl.  ot 
money,  and  am  so  still  to  all  the  purposes  of  a  single  lue 
r„  .he  yourself  no  further  concern  abont  it.     The  money 
would  be  superfluous  to  me  if  I  had  it. 

a  When  Southey  becomes  as  modest  as  h,s  predecessor 
Milton,  and  publishes  his  Epics  in  duodecimo,  I  will  read 
•em  •  a  Ruinea  a  book  is  somewhat  exorbitant,  nor  have  1 
L  Opportunity  of  borrowing  the  work.     The  extracts  from 
,t  in  the  Monthly  Kevieivs,  and  the  short  passages  myour 
Watchman,  seem  to  me  much  superior  to  anything  in  his 
partnership  account  with  Lovoll     Your  poems  I  shall  p  o- 
Lre  forthwith.     There  were  noble  lines  in  what  you  in- 
serted in  one  of  your  numbers,  from  '  Religious  Musings  ; 
but  I  thought  them  elaborate.     I  am  somewhat  glad  you 
have  given  up  that  paper ;  it  must  have  been  dry,  unpi^fit- 
able   and  of  dissonant  mood  to  your  disposition.     I  wish 
y!:'success  in  all  your  undertakings,  and  am  glad  to    ear 
you  are  employed  about  the  '  Evidences  of  Eelig.on     Ih    o 
sneed  of  multiplying  such  ^ooks  a  hundredfold         h.s 
philosophical  age,  to  prevent  converts  to  atheism,  fo    they 
seem  too  tough  disputants  to  meddle  with  afterward 

"Le  Grice  is  gone  to  make  puns  in  Cornwall.     He  has 
got  a  tut  rship  ?o  a  young  boy  living  with  his  mother,  a 
l°dow-lady.     He  will,  of  course,  initiate  him  quickly  m 
wha^solver   things  are   lovely,  honorable,  and  of  good 
retott      Coleridge  -  I  know  not  what  suffering  scenes  you 
ave  2one  throu<.h  at  Bristol.     My  life  has  been  somewhat 
d  ™rsTfied  of  lat°e.     The  six  weeks  that  finished  la.t  year 
a  ^i  b  gan  ^^.s,  your  very  humble  servant  spent  very  agree- 
!  abiy  in  a  madiouse,  at  Hoxton.     I  am  got  somewhat  ra- 
tional now,  and  don't  bite  any  one.     But  mad  I  wos !    And 


16  LETTEIIS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

many  a  vagary  my  imagination  played  with  mo,  enough 
to  make  a  volume,  if  all  were  told.  My  sonnets  I  have  ex- 
tended to  the  number  of  nine  since  I  saw  you,  and  will 
some  day  communicate  to  you.  I  am  beginning  a  poem 
in  blank  verse,  which,  if  I  finish,  I  publish.  White  is  on 
the  eve  of  publishing  (he  took  the  hint  from  Vortigern) 
'  Original  letters  of  Falstaff,  Shallow,'  &c.,  a  copy  you 
shall  have  when  it  comes  out.  They  are  without  excep- 
tion the  best  imitations  I  ever  saw.  Coleridge !  it  may 
convince  you  of  my  regards  for  you  when  I  tell  you  my 
head  ran  on  you  in  my  madness,  as  much  almost  as  on 
another  person,  who  I  am  inclined  to  think  was  the 
more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary  frenzy. 

"  The  sonnet  I  send  you  has  small  merit  as  poetry ;  but 
you  will  be  curious  to  read  it  when  I  tell  you  it  was  writ- 
ten in  my  prison-house  in  one  of  my  lucid  intervals. 

TO  MY  SISTER. 
"If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fell, 

Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind, 

'Twas  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 
And  troubled  thoughts,  clouding  the  purer  well, 

And  waters  clear,  of  Reason  ;  and  for  me 

Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be — 

My  verse,  which  thou  to  praise  wert  o'er  inclined 

Too  highly,  and  with  partial  03-6  to  see 
No  blemish.     Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 

Kindest  affection;  and  wouldst  oft-times  lend 

An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay, 

"Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 
But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 

Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  ray  friend. 

"With  these  lines,  and  with  that  sister's  kindest  remem- 
brances to  C ,  I  conclude. 

"  Yours  sincerely,  Lamb." 

"Your  '  Conciones  ad  Populum' are  the  most  eloquent 
politics  that  ever  came  in  my  way. 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  17 

"  Write  when  convenient — not  as  a  task,  for  here  is  no- 
thing in  this  letter  to  answer. 

"  We  cannot  send  our  rememhrances  to  Mrs.  C,  not 
having  seen  her,  but  believe  me  our  best  good  washes  at- 
tend you  both. 

"  My  civic  and  poetic  compliments  to  Southey  if  at  Bris- 
tol ; — why,  he  is  a  very  Leviathan  of  Bards — the  small 
minnow,  I !" 

In  the  spring  of  this  year,  Coleridge  proposed  the  associa- 
tion of  those  first  efforts  of  the  young  clerk  in  the  India 
House,  which  he  had  prompted  and  praised,  with  his  own, 
in  a  new  edition  of  his  Poems,  to  which  Mr.  Charles  Lloyd 
also  proposed  to  contribute.  The  following  letter  comprises 
Sonnets  transmitted  to  Coleridge  for  this  purpose,  accom- 
panied by  remarks  so  characteristic  as  to  induce  the  hope 
that  the  reader  will  forgive  the  introduction  of  these  small 
gems  of  verse  which  were  published  in  due  course,  for  the 
sake  of  the  original  setting. 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"  1796. 

"  I  am  in  such  violent  pain  with  the  head-ache,  that  I 
am  fit  for  nothing  but  transcribing,  scarce  for  that. 
"When  I  get  your  poems,  and  the  '  Joan  of  Arc,'  I  will  ex- 
ercise my  presumption  in  giving  you  my  opinion  of  'em. 
The  mail  does  not  come  in  before  to-morrow  (Wednesday) 
morning.  The  following  Sonnet  was  composed  during  a 
walk  down  into  Hertfordshire  early  in  last  summer  : — 

"The  Lord  of  Light  shakes  off  his  drowsyhed.* 

Fresh  from  his  couch  up  springs  the  lusty  sun, 
And  girds  liiiuself  his  mighty  race  to  run  ; 
Meantimej  by  tru:int  love  of  rambling  led, 

*  "  Drowsyhed"  I  have  met  with,  I  tbiuk,  in  Spenser.  'Tis  an  old  thing,  but  it  ihynies 
with  led,  and  rhyming  covers  a  multitude  of  licenses. — 0.  Lamb's  Manuscripts. 

2* 


18  LETTERS   TO    COLEEIDGE. 

I  turn  iiij-  Lack  en  thy  dotettcil  walls. 

Proud  city,  and  tlij'  sons  I  leave  behind, 

A  selfisli,  sordid,  money  gcttin?-kind, 
Who  shut,  their  ears  when  holy  Freetloni  calls. 
I  pass  not  thee  so  lightly,  huinlde  spire, 

That  mindest  rao  of  many  a  pleasure  gone. 

Of  merriest  days  of  Love  and  Islington, 
Kindling  anew  the  flames  of  past  desire; 

And  I  shall  muse  on  thee,  slow  journeying  on. 
To  the  green  plains  of  pleasant  Hertfordshire. 

"  The  last  line  is  a  copy  of  Bo\\les's,  '  To  the  green  hairi' 
let  in  the  peaceful  plain.'  Your  ears  are  not  so  very  fasti- 
dious ;  many  people  would  not  like  words  so  prosaic  and 
familiar  in  a  Sonnet  as  Islino;ton  and  Hertfordshire.  The 
next  was  written  within  a  day  or  two  of  the  last,  on  revis- 
iting a  spot  where  the  scene  was  laid  of  my  first  Sonnet 
'  that  mocked  my  step  with  many  a  lonely  glade.' 

"When  last  I  roved  these  winding  wood-walks  green. 
Green  winding  walks,  and  shadj'  pathwaj-s  sweet  j 

Oft-times  would  Anna  seek  the  silent  scene, 
Shrouding  her  beauties  in  the  louo  retreat. 

No  more  I  hear  her  footsteps  in  the  shade ; 
Her  image  only  in  these  pleasant  ways 
Meets  me  self-wandering,  where  in  happier  days 

I  held  free  converse  with  my  fair-haired  maid. 
I  passed  the  little  cottage  which  she  loved, 

The  cottage  which  did  once  my  all  contain  ; 

It  spake  of  days  that  ne'er  must  come  again  ; 

Spake  to  my  heart,  and  much  my  heart  was  moved. 

Now  '  Fair  befal  thee,  gentle  maid,'  said  Ij 

And  from  the  cottage  turned  me  with  a  sigh. 

"  The  next  retains  a  few  lines  from  a  Sonnet  of  mine 
which  you  once  remarked  had  no  '  body  of  thought'  in  it 
I  agree  with  you,  but  have  preserved  a  part  of  it,  and  it 
runs  thus.     I  ilatter  myself  you  will  like  it  : 

"A  timid  grace  sits  trembling  in  her  eye, 

As  loth  to  meet  the  rudeness  of  men's  sight; 
Yet  shedding  a  delicious  lunar  light, 
That  steeps  in  kind  oblivious  ecstaey 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  19 

The  care-crazed  mind,  like  some  still  melody  : 

Speaking  most  plain  tlie  thoughts  which  do  possess 
Ilor  gentle  sprite,  peace  and  meek  quietness, 
And  innocent  loves,*  and  maiden  purity: 

A  look  who'coT  might  heal  the  cruel  smart 
Of  changed  friends  ;  or  Fortune's  wrongs  unkind  ; 

Might  to  sweet  deeds  of  mercy  move  the  heart 
Of  him,  who  hates  his  brethren  of  mankind: 
Turned  are  those  beams  from  me,  who  fondly  yet 
Past  joj's,  vain  loves,  and  buried  hopes  regret. 

"  The  next  and  last  I  value  most  of  all.  'Twas  com- 
posed close  upon  the  licels  of  tlie  last,  in  that  very  wood  I 
had  in  mind  Avlien  I  wrote — '  Mcthinks  how  dainty  sweet.' 

"  We  were  two  pretty  babes,  the  j'oungest  she, 

The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween. 

And  Innocence  her  name.     The  time  has  been 
We  two  did  love  each  other's  company; 

Time  wa;',  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart; 

But  when,  with  show  of  seeming  good  beguil'd, 

I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child, 
And  m}'  first  love  fur  man's  society. 

Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 
My  loved  companion  dropt  a  tear,  and  iled, 
And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head. 

Beloved  who  can  tell  me  where  thou  art — 
In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 
That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around  ? 

"  Since  writing  it,  I  have  found  in  a  poem  by  Hamilton 
of  Bangor,  these  two  lines  to  '  Happiness.' 

Nun,  sober  and  devout,  where  art  thou  fled. 
To  hide  in  shades  thy  meek  contented  head? 

Lines  eminently  beautiful ;  but  I  do  not  remeudjcr  havmg 
read  them  previously,  foe  the  credit  of  my  tenth  and  elev- 
enth lines.  Parnell  has  two  lines  (which  probably  sug- 
gested the  above)  to  '  Contentment.' 

'■"-  Cowley  uses  this  phrase  with  a  somewhat  different  meaning.  I  raciint 
loves  of  relatives,  friends,  &c., — C.  Lamb's  Manuscripts. 


'"^^  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

Whither,  ah  !  whither  art  thou  flod 
To  hide  thy  meek  contented*  head  ? 

"  Coys-lefs  exquisite  '  Elegj  on  the  death  of  his  friend 
ilarvej,   suggested  the  phrase  of  'we  two.' 

Was  there  a  tree  that  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? 

-  So  much  for  acknowledged  plagiarisms,  the  confession 
ot  which    I  know  not  whether  it  has  more  of  vanity  or 
modesty  m  it      As  to  mj  blank  verse,  I  am  so  dismally 
slow  and  sterile  of  ideas  (I  speak  from  mj  heart)  that  I 
much  question  if  it  will  ever  come  to  any  issue.     I  have 
hithei;to  only  hammered  out  a  few  independent,  uncon- 
nected snatches,  not  in  a  capacity  to  be  sent.     I  am  very 
ill,  and  will  rest  till  I  have  read  your  poems,  for  which  I 
am  very  thankful.     I  have  one  more  favor  to  beo-  of  you 
that  you  never  mention  Mr.  May's  affair  in  any  sort,  much 
less  think  of  repaying.    Are  we  not  flocci-nauci-what-d'ye- 
call-'em-ists  ?     We  have  just  learned  that  my  poor  brother 
has  had  a  sad  accident,  a  large  stone  blown  down  by  yester- 
day's high   wind  has  bruised  his  leg  in  a  most  shocking 
manner  ;  he  is  under  the  care  of  Cruikshanks.    Coleridge  ' 
there  are  10,000  objections  against  my  paying  you  a  visit  at 
iiristol ;  It  cannot  be  else  ;  but  in  this  world  'tis  better  not 
to  think  too  much  of  pleasant  possibles,  that  we  may  not 
be  out  of  humor  with  present  insipids.     Should  anything 
brmg  you  to   London,  you  will  recollect  No.  7,   Little 
Queen  Street,  Holborn. 

"I  shall  be  too  ill  to  call  on  Wordsworth  myself  but 
will  take  care  to  transmit  him  his  poem,  when  I  have  read 
Jt.  I  saw  Le  Grice  the  day  before  his  departure,  and 
mentioned  incidentally  his  'teaching  the  young  idea  ho^v 

*  An  odd  epithet  for  Conrentn-.nt  in   a  poet  s.   poetical   as   Parnell  _C 
Lamb  s  Manuscripts. 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  21 

to  shoot.'  Knowing  him  and  the  probability  there  is  of 
people  having  a  propensity  to  pun  in  his  company,  you 
Avill  not  wonder  that  we  both  stumbled  on  the  same  pun  at 
once,  he  eagerly  anticipating  me, — '  he  would  teach  him 
to  shoot !'  Poor  Le  Grice  !  if  wit  alone  could  entitle  a 
man  to  respect,  &c.,  he  has  written  a  very  witty  little  pam- 
phlet lately,  satirical  upon  college  declamations.  When  I 
send  White's  book,  I  will  add  that.  I  am  sorry  there 
should  be  any  difference  between  you  and  Southey.  '  Be- 
tween you  two  there  should  be  peace,'  tho'  I  must  say  I 
have  borne  him  no  good  will  since  he  spirited  you  away 
from  among  us.  "What  is  become  of  Moschus  ?  You 
sported  some  of  his  sublimities,  I  see,  in  your  Watchman. 
Very  decent  things.  So  much  for  to-night  from  your 
afBicted,  headachey,  sore-throatey,  humble  servant, 

"  C.  Lamb." 

"  Tuesday  night. — Of  your  Watchman,  the  Review  of 
Burke  was  the  best  prose.  I  augured  great  things  from 
the  first  number.  There  is  some  exquisite  poetry  inter- 
spersed. I  have  re-read  the  extract  from  the  '  Religious 
Musings,'  and  retract  whatever  invidious  there  was  in  my 
censure  of  it  as  elaborate.  There  are  times  when  one  is 
not  in  a  disposition  thoroughly  to  relish  good  writing.  I 
have  re-read  it  in  a  more  favorable  moment,  and  hesitate 
not  to  pronounce  it  sublime.  If  there  be  anything  in  it 
approaching  to  tumidity  (which  I  meant  not  to  infer ;  by 
elaborate  I  meant  simply  labored),  it  is  the  gigantic  hyper- 
bole by  which  you  describe  the  evils  of  existing  society ; 
'snakes,  lions,  hyenas,  and  behemoths,'  is  carrying  your 
resentment  beyond  bounds.  The  pictures  of '  The  Simoom,' 
of  'Frenzy  and  Ruin,'  of  '  The  Whore  of  Babylon,'  and 
'  The  Cry  of  Foul  Spirits  disherited  of  Earth,'  and  '  the 
strange  beatitude'  which  the  good  man  shall  recognise  in 


on 

^^  LETTERS    TO    COLEKIDiiK. 

heaven,  as  well  as  the  particularising  of  die  children  of 
wretchedness  (I  have  unconsciously  included  every  part 
of  it),  form  a  variety  of  uniform  excellence.  I  hunger  and 
thirst  to  read  the  poem  complete.  That  is  a  capital  line 
in  your  sixth  number. 

'This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattcring  month.' 

They  are  exactly  such  epithets  as  Burns  would  have  stum- 
bled on,  whose  poem  on  the  ploughed-up  daisy  you  seem  to 
have  had  in  mind.     Your  complaint  that  of  your  readers 
some  thought  there  was  too  much,  some  too  little  original 
matter  in  your  numbers,  reminds  me  of  poor  dead  Parsons 
in  the  '  Critic'     '  Too  little  incident !     Give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  sir,  there  is  too  much  incident.'     I  had  like  to 
have  forgot  thanking  you  for  that  exquisite  little  morsel, 
the  first  Sclavonian  Song.    The  expression  in  the  second,— 
*'  more  happy  to  be  unhappy  in  hell ;'  is  it  not  very  quaint  ? 
Accept  my  thanks,  in  common  with  those  of  all  who  love 
good  poetry,  for  '  The  Braes  of  Yarrow.'     I  congratulate 
you  on  the  enemies  you  must  have  made  by  your  splendid 
invective  against  the  barterers  in  human  flesh  and  sinews. 
Coleridge  !   you  will  rejoice   to  hear  that  Cowpcr  is  re- 
covered from  his  lunacy,  and  is  employed  on  his  transla-  ' 
tion  of  the  Italian,  &c.,  poems  of  Milton  for  an  edition 
where  Fuseli  presides  as  designer,     Coleridge  I  to  an  idler 
like  myself,  to  write  and  receive  letters  are  both  very  plea, 
sant,  but  I  wish  not  to  break  in  upon  your  valuabfc  time 
by  expecting  to  hear  very  frequently  from  you.     Rcsci-ve 
that  obligation  for  your  moments  of  lassitude,  when  you 
have  nothing  else  to  do  ;  for  your  loco-restive  and  all  your 
idle  propensities,  of  course,  iiave  given  way  to  \\\(i  duties 
of  providing  for  a  family.     The  mail  is  come  in,  but  no 
parcel ;  yet  this  is  Tuesday.     Farewell,  then,  till  to-mor- 
row, for  a  niche  and  a  nook  I  must  leave  for  criticisms. 


LETTEUS    TO    COLEIIIDGE.  23 

By  the  way  I  hope  you  do  not  send  your  only  copy  of 
Joan  of  Arc  ;   I  will  in  that  case  return  it  immediately. 

"  Your  parcel  is  come ;  you  have  been  lavish  of  your 
presents. 

"  Wordsworth's  poem  I  have  hurried  through,  not  witli- 
oat  delight.  Poor  Lovell !  my  heart  almost  accuses  me 
for  the  light  manner  I  spoke  of  him  above,  not  dreaming 
of  liis  death.  My  heart  bleeds  for  your  accumulated 
troubles  ;  God  send  you  through  'em  with  patience.  1 
conjure  you  dream  not  that  I  will  ever  think  of  being  re- 
paid ;  the  vei^y  word  is  galling  to  the  ears.  I  have  read 
all  your  '  Religious  Musings'  with  uninterrupted  feelings 
of  profound  admiration.  You  may  safely  rest  your  fame 
on  it.  The  best  remainhig  things  are  Avhat  I  have  before 
read,  and  they  lose  nothing  by  my  recollection  of  your 
manner  of  reciting  'em,  for  I  too  bear  in  mind  '  the  voice, 
the  look,'  of  absent  friends,  and  can  occasionally  mimic 
their  manner  for  the  amusement  of  those  Avho  have  seen 
'em.  Y'^our  impassioned  manner  of  recitation  I  can  recall 
at  any  time  to  mine  own  heart  and  to  the  ears  of  the  by- 
standers. I  rather  wish  you  had  left  the  monody  on 
Chatterton  concluding  as  it  did  abruptly.  It  had  more  of 
unity.  The  conclusion  of  your  '  Religious  Musings,'  I 
fear  will  entitle  you  to  the  reproof  of  your  beloved  woman, 
who  wisely  will  not  suffer  your  fancy  to  run  riot,  but  bids 
you  walk  humbly  with  your  God.  The  xerj  last  wordr,  '  I 
exercise  my  young  noviciate  thought  in  ministeries  of 
heart-stirring  song,'  though  not  new  to  mo,  cannot  be 
enough  admired.  To  speak  politely,  they  are  a  well- 
turned  compliment  to  Poetry.  I  hasten  to  read  '  Joan  of 
Arc,  &c.'  I  have  read  your  lines  at  the  beginning  of  second 
book :  they  are  v/orthy  of  Milton  ;  but  in  my  mind  yield  to 
your  'Religious  Musings.'     I  shall  read  the  whole  care- 


24  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

fully,  and  in  some  future  letter  take  the  liberty  to  par- 
ticularise my  opinions  of  it.  Of  what  is  new  to  me  among 
your  poems  next  to  the  '  Musings,'  that  beginning  '  INIy 
Pensi  :'e  Sara'  gave  me  most  pleasure  :  the  lines  in  it  I 
just  alluded  to  are  most  exquisite ;  they  made  my  sister 
and  self  smile,  as  conveying  a  pleasing  picture  of  Mrs.  C. 
cliecking  your  wild  wanderings,  which  we  were  so  fond  of 
hearing  you  indulge  when  among  us.  It  has  endeared  us 
more  than  anything  to  your  good  lady,  and  your  own  self- 
reproof  that  follows  delighted  us.  'Tis  a  charming  poem 
throughout  (you  have  well  remarked  that  charming,  ad- 
mirable, exquisite  are  the  words  expressive  of  feelings 
more  than  conveying  of  ideas,  else  I  might  plead  very  well 
want  of  room  in  my  paper  as  excuse  for  generalising).  I 
Avant  room  to  tell  you  how  we  are  charmed  Avith  your 
verses  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  &c.  &c.  &c.  &c.  &c.  1 
am  glad  you  resume  the  '  Watchman.'  Change  the  name  ; 
leave  out  all  articles  of  news,  and  whatever  things  are  pe- 
culiar to  newspapers,  and  confine  yourself  to  ethics,  verse, 
criticism — or  rather  do  not  confine  yourself.  Let  your  plan 
be  as  diffuse  as  the  '  Spectator,'  and  I'll  answer  for  it  tlie 
work  prospers.  If  I  am  vain  enough  to  think  I  can  be  a 
contributor,  rely  on  my  inclinations.  Coleridge  !  in  read- 
ing your  '  Religious  Musings,'  I  felt  a  transient  superi- 
ority over  you.  I  have  seen  Priestley.  I  love  to  see  his 
name  repeated  in  your  writings.  I  love  and  honor  him 
almost  profaneh'.  You  Avould  be  charmed  Avith  Ins  Ser- 
vions,  if  you  never  read  'em.  You  have  doubiie^s  read 
his  books  illustrative  of  the  doctrine  of  Necessity.  Pre- 
fixed to  a  late  Avork  of  his  in  ansAver  to  Paine,  there  is  a 
preface  giving  an  account  of  the  man,  and  his  services  to 
men,  Avritten  by  Lindsey,  his  dearest  friend,  well  worth 
your  reading. 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  25 

"  Tuesday  eve. — Forgive  my  prolixity,  which  is  yet  too 
brief  for  all  I  could  wish  to  say.  God  give  you  comfort, 
and  all  that  are  of  your  household  !  Our  loves  and  best 
good  wishes  to  Mrs.  C.  C.  Lamb." 

The  parcel  mentioned  in  the  last  letter,  brought  the  "Joan 
of  Arc,"  and  a  request  from  Coleridge,  that  Lamb  would 
freely  criticise  his  poems  with  a  view  to  their  selection  and 
correction  for  the  contemplated  volume.  The  reply  is  con- 
tained in  the  following  letter,  which,  written  on  several 
days,  begins  at  the  extreme  top  of  the  first  page,  without 
any  ceremony  of  introduction,  and  is  comprised  in  three 
sides  and  a  bit  of  foolscap. 

TO   MR.    COLERIDGE. 

•r 

"  With  '  Joan  of  Arc'  I  have  been  delighted,  amazed  ; 

I  had  not  presumed  to  expect  anything  of  such  excellence 
from  Southey.  Why  the  poem  is  alone  sufficient  to  re- 
deem the  character  of  the  age  we  live  in  from  the  impu- 
tation of  degenerating  in  Poetry,   were  there  no  such 

beings  extant  as  Burns,  and  Bowles,  Cowper,  and ; 

fill  up  the  blank  how  you  please  ;  I  say  nothing.  The  sub- 
ject is  well  chosen.  It  opens  well.  To  become  more  par- 
ticular, I  will  notice  in  their  order  a  few  passages  that 
chiefly  struck  me  on  perusal.  Page  26,  '  Fierce  and  ter- 
rible Benevolence  !'  is  a  phrase  full  of  grandeur  and  origi- 
nality. The  whole  context  made  me  fee\ possessed,  even  like 
Joan  herself.  Page  28,  '  It  is  most  horrible  with  the  keen 
sword  to  gore  the  finely-fibred  human  frame,'  and  what 
follows,  pleased  me  mightily.  In  the  2d  Book,  the  first 
forty  lines  in  particular  are  majestic  and  high-sounding 
Indeed  the  whole  vision  of  the  Palace  of  Ambition  and 
what  follows  are  supremely  excellent.  Your  simile  of 
3 


IS 


26  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

the  Laplander,  <Bj  Niemi's  lake,  or  Balda  Zhiok,  or  the 
mossy  stone  of  Solfar-Kapper,'*  will  bear  comparison 
with  any  in  iMilton  for  fullness  of  circumstance  and  lofty- 
pacedness  of  versification.  Southey's  similes,  though 
man^^f  'em  are  capital,  are  all  inferior.  In  one  of  his 
'^oolvs/'t^e  simile  of  the  oak  in  the  storm  occurs,  I  think 
four  times.  To  return  ;  the  light  in  Avhich  you  vie^y  the 
heathen  deities  is  accurate  and  beautiful.  Southey's  "per- 
sonifications in  this  book  are  so  many  fine  and  faultless 
pictures.  I  was  much  pleased  with  your  manner  of  ac- 
counting for  the  reason  why  monarchs  take  delight  in 
war.  At  the  447th  line  you  have  placed  Prophets  and  En- 
thusiasts  cheek  by  jowl,  on  too  intimate  a  footing  for  the 
dignity  of  the  former.  Necessarian-like-speaking,  it  is 
correct.  Page  98,  '  Dead  is  the  Douglas!  cold  tliy  war- 
rior frame,  illustrious  Buchan,'  &c.,  are  of  kindred  excel- 
lence with  Gray's  '  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue,'  &c.  How 
famously  the  Maid  baffles  the  Doctors,  Seraphic  and  Irre- 
fragable, 'with  all  their  trumpery  !'  Page  126,  the  pro- 
cession, the  appearances  of  the  Maid,  of  the  Bastard  Son 
of  Orleans  and  of  Tremouille,  are  full  of  fire  and  fancy, 
and  exquisite  melody  of  versification.  The  personifications 
from  line  303  to  309,  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  had  better 
been  omitted;  they  are  not  very  striking,  and  only  en- 
cumber. The  converse  which  Joan  and  Conrade  hold  on 
the  banks  of  the  Loire  is  altogether  beautiful.  Page  313, 
the  conjecture  that  in  dreams  '  all  things  are  that  seem,' 
is  one  of  those  conceits  which  the  Poet  delights  to  admit 
into  his  creed — a  creed,  by  the  way,  more  marvellous  and 
mystic  than  ever  Athanasius  dreamed  of.  Pa^e  315,  I 
need  only  mention  those  lines  ending  with  '  She  saw  a 

*  Lnpland  Djountains.     The  verses  referred  to  are  publishetl   in  Mr.  Cola 
ridgj's  Poem  entitled  "  The  Destiny  of  Nations  :  a  Vision. " 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  27 

serpent  gnawing  at  her  heart !'  Thcj  are  good  imitative 
lines,  'he  toiled  and  toiled,  of  toil  to  reap  no  end,  hut  end- 
less toil  and  never-ending  woe.'  Pnge  347,  Crueltj  is 
such  as  Hogarth  might  have  painted  her.  Page  361,  all 
the  passage  about  Love  (where  he  seems  to  confound  con- 
jugal love  with  creating  and  preserving  love)  is  very  con- 
fused, and  sickens  me  with  a  load  of  useless  personifica- 
tions ;  else  that  ninth  Book  is  the  finest  in  the  volume — 
an  exquisite  combination  of  the  ludicrous  and  the  terrible  : 
I  have  never  read  either,  even  in  translation,  but  such  I 
conceive  to  be  the  manner  of  Dante  or  Ariosto.  The 
tenth  Book  is  the  most  languid.  On  the  whole,  consider- 
ing the  celerity  wherewith  the  poem  was  finished,  I  was 
astonished  at  the  unfrequency  of  weak  lines.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  find  it  verbose.  Joan,  I  think,  does  too  little  in 
battle ;  Dunois  perhaps  the  same  ;  Conrade  too  much.  The 
anecdotes  interspersed  among  the  battles  refresh  the 
mind  very  agreeably,  and  I  am  deliglited  with  the  very 
many  passages  of  simple  pathos  abounding  throughout  the 
poem,  passages  which  the  author  of  '  Crazy  Kate'  might 
have  written.  Has  not  Master  Southcy  spoke  very  slight- 
ingly, in  his  preface,  and  disparagingly  of  Cowper's  Homer  ? 
What  makes  him  reluctant  to  give  Cowper  his  fame  ? 
And  does  not  Southey  use  too  often  the  expletives  '  did,' 
and  'does?'  They  have  a  good  effect  at  times,  but  are 
too  inconsiderable,  or  rather  become  blemishes,  when  they 
mark  a  style.  On  the  whole,  I  expect  Southey  one  day 
to  rival  Milton :  I  already  deem  him  equal  to  Cowper,  and 
superior  to  all  living  poets  besides.  What  says  Coleridge  ? 
The  '  Monody  on  Henderson'  is  immenselij  good,  the  rest 
of  that  little  volume  is  readable,  and  above  mediocrity.  I 
proceed  to  a  more  pleasant  task ;  pleasant  because  the 
poems  are  yours  ;  pleasant  because  you  impose  the  lasK  on 


28 


LETTEES  TO  COLERIDGE. 


A 


me ;  and  pleasant  let  me  add,  because  it  will  confer  a, 
wliimsical  importance  on  me,  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  your 
rhymes.      First,  though,  let  me    thank   you   again    and 

gain,  in  my  oAvn  and  my  sister's  name,  for  your  invita- 
tions ;  nothing  could  give  us  more  pleasure  than  to  come, 
but  (were  there  no  other  reasons)  w^hile  my  brother's  leg 
is  so  bad  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  A'ery 
feverish  and  light-headed,  but  Cruikshanks  has  pronounced 
the  symptoms  favorable,  and  gives  us  every  hope  that 
there  will  be  no  need  of  amputation  :  God  send  not !  Wo 
are  necessarily  confined  with  him  all  the  afternoon  and 
evening  till  very  late,  so  that  I  am  stealing  a  few  mi- 
nutes to  write  to  you. 

,  "  Thank  you  for  your  frequent  letters  ;  you  are  the  only 
correspondent,  and,  I  might  add,  the  only  friend  I  have  in 
the  world.  I  go  nowhere,  and  have  no  acquaintance.  Slow 
of  speech,  and  reserved  of  manners,  no  one  seeks  or  cares 
for  my  society  ;  and  I  am  left  alone.  Allen  calls  only  oc- 
casionally, as  though  it  were  a  duty  rather,  and  seldom 
stays  ten  minutes.  Then  judge  how  thankful  I  am  for 
your  letters  !  Do  not,  however,  burthen  yourself  with  the 
correspondence.  I  trouble  you  again  so  soon,  only  in  obe- 
dience to  your  injunctions.  Complaints  apart,  proceed  we 
to  our  task.  I  am  called  away  to  tea;  thence  must  wait 
upon  my  brother  ;  so  must  delay  till  to-morrow.  Farewell. 
Wednesday. 

"  Thursday. — I  will  first  notice  what  is  new  to  me.  Thir- 
teenth page  ;  '  The  thrilling  tones  that  concentrate  the  soul' 
is  a  nervous  line,  and  the  six  first  lines  of  page  14  are  very 
pretty  ;  the  twenty-first  efiusion  a  perfect  thing.  That  in 
the  manner  of  Spensei-  is  very  sweet,  particularly  at  the 
close  1  the  thirty-fifth  eff"usion  is  most  exquisite;  that  line 
in  particular,  'And,  tranquil,  muse  upon  tranquillity.'    It 


LETTERS  TO    COLERIDGE. 

•,  tl  e  very  reflex  pleasure  that  distinguishes  the  tranquil- 
^s  the  very  ituu^.  ^  ^i,  +  ^f  ^  chpnherd   a  modern 

hty  of  a  thinking  being  from  that  of  a  shephe 
one  I  would  be  understood  to  mean,  a  Dam.^ta.   one  that 

'^  TP  f,n   r.f'  A  stream  there  IS  A\nieiii  Oils 

';  2  W.'lt  s«eet  line,  and  so  a.e  t.e  th.eo  next 
jasmm  om^e         _  f^.^^l^eel—' tempest-honored  is 

The  concluding  simile  is  tai-tetcneu  v 

^l1::S^fr;etical   family.     I.a.n,ncK™.,,.isea 
anc^r   ed  to  sL  tbe  signature  of  Bava  to  tl>a   e  egan 
^position,  the  fifth  epistle.     I  da,-e  not  ---;•;«; 
r  ■    „  Miisint-s-'  I  like  not  to  sekct  any  pait,  wneie  an 
iCdlent      I  can  only  admi.e,  and  thank  you  for  .t  m 
the  name  of  a  Cnristian,  as  ^ell  as  a  lover  of  good  poetry  , 
u  y  in  ask.  is  not  that  thought  and  ^^-J"  ^^ 
Youn.,  'stands  in  the  snn.'-or  ,s  ,    only  s.«;h  as  loung, 
i„  one°ot  his  hdtcr  moments,  might  have  writ .- 

'  Believe  thou,  0  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream  !' 

I  thank  you  for  these  lines  in  the  name  of  a  necessarian 
and  t  Ihat  follows  in  next  paragraph,  m  the  name  o  a 
Tm  If  f  ,„ev  After  all,  you  cannot,  nor  ever  ivill,  ^vnte 
InU,.:^  '.vhth  I  shau\e  so  delighted  as  .hat  I  have 
hea  d  yourself  repeat.  You  came  to  town,  and  I  saw  you 
atatime  when  your  heart  was  yet  Weeding,  w.th  recent 


30  LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE. 

wounds.    Like  yourself,  I  was  sore  galled  with  disappointed 
hope ;  you  had 

'  many  an  holy  lay 


That,  mourning,  soothed  the  mourner  on  his  way; 

"I  had  ears  of  sympathy  to  drink  them  in,  and  tlicy 
yet  vibrate  pleasant  on  the  sense.  When  I  read  in  your 
little  volume,  your  nineteenth  effusion,  or  the  twenty-eighth 
or  twenty -ninth,  or  what  you  call  the  '  Sigh,'  I  think  I 
hear  «/ow  again.  I  image  to  myself  the  little  smoky  room 
at  the  Salutation  and  Cat,  where  we  have  set  together 
through  the  winter  nights,  beguiling  the  cares  of  life  with 
Poesy.  When  you  left  London,  I  felt  a  dismal  void  in 
my  heart.  I  found  myself  cut  off,  at  one  and  the  same 
time,  from  two  most  dear  to  me.  '  How  blest  with  ye  the 
path  could  I  have  trod  ot  quiet  life!'  In  your  conversa- 
tion you  had  blended  so  many  pleasant  fancies  that  they 
cheated  me  of  my  grief.  But  in  your  absence  the  tide  of 
mchmcholy  rushed  in  again  and  did  its  worst  mischief  by 
overwhelming  my  reason.  I  have  recovered,  but  feel  a 
stupor  that  makes  me  indifferent  to  the  hopes  and  fears  of 
this  life.  I  sometimes  wish  to  introduce  a  religious  turn 
of  mind,  but  habits  are  strong  things,  and  my  religious 
fervors  are  confined,  alas  !  to  some  fleeting  moments  of 
occasional  solitary  devotion.  A  correspondence,  opening  with 
you,  has  roused  me  a  little  from  my  lethargy  and  made  me 
conscious  of  existence.  Indulge  me  in  it ;  I  will  not  be  very 
troublesome  !  At  some  future  time  I  will  amuse  you  with 
an  account,  as  full  as  my  memory  will  permit,  of  the  strange 
turn  my  frenzy  took.  I  look  back  upon  it  at  times  with  a 
gloomy  kind  of  envy ;  for,  while  it  lasted,  I  had  many, 
many  hours  of  pure  happiness.  Dream  not,  Coleridge, 
of  having  tasted  all  the  grandeur  and  wildness  of  fanc^ 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  31 

till  you  have  gone  mad  !     All  now  seems  to  me  vapid,  com- 
paratlvely  so.     Excuse  this  solfish  digression.    Your  '  Mou. 
ody'  is  so  superlatively  excellent,  that  I  can  only  Avish  it 
perfect,  which  I  can't  help  feeling  it  is  not  quite.     Indulge 
me  in  a  few  conjectures  ;  what  I  am  going  to  propose  would 
make  it  more  compressed,  and,  I  think,  more  energetic, 
though  I  am  sensible  at  the  expense  of  many  beautiful  lines. 
Let  Tt  begin  '  Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ?'  and 
proceed  to  '  Otwav's  famished  form  ;'  then,  'Thee,  Chat- 
terton,'  to  'blaze  of  Seraphim;'  then,  'clad  in  Nature's 
rich  array,'  to  'orient  day  ;'  then,  'but  soon. the  scathing 
lightning,'  to  '  blighted  land  ;'  then,  '  sublime  of  thought,'  to 
'  his  bosom  glows  ;'  then 

'But  soon  upon  h!s  poor  unsheltered  head 
Did  Penury  her  sicklj-  mildew  shed  ; 
And  soon  are  fled  the  charms  of  early  grace, 
And  joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  bis  face.' 

Then  '  youth  of  tumnltuous  soul'  to  '  sigh,'  as  before. 
The  rest  may  all  stand  down  to  '  gaze  upon  the  waves  be- 
low.'  What  follows  now  may  come  next  as  detached  ver- 
ses, suggested  by  the  Monody,  rather  than  a  part  of  it. 
They  ai^,  indeed,  in  themselves,  very  sweet : 

And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng. 
Hanging  enraptured  on  thy  stately  song  !' 

in  particular,  perhaps.  If  I  am  obscure,  you  may  under 
stand  me  by  counting  lines:  I  have  proposed  omitting 
twenty-four  lines  :  I  feel  that  thus  compressed  it  would 
gain  enegrv,  but  think  it  most  likely  you  will  not  agree  with 
me  ;  forVho  shall  go  about  to  bring  opinions  to  the  bed 
of  Procrustes,  and  introduce  among  the  sons  of  men  a  mo- 
notony of  identical  feelings  ?     lonly  propose  with  diffidence. 


32  LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE. 

Reject  you,  if  you  please,  with  as  little  remorse  as  you 
would  the  color  of  a  coat  or  the  pattern  of  a  buckle,  where 
our  fancies  differed. 

"  '  The  Pixies'  is  a  perfect  thing,  and  so  are  the  '  Lines 
on  the  Spring,'  page  28.  The  'Epitaph  on  an  Infant,' 
like  a  Jack-o'-lanthorn,  has  danced  about  (or  like  Dr.  For- 
ster's  scholars)  out  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  into  the 
Watchman,  and  thence  back  into  your  collection.  It  is  very 
pretty,  and  you  seem  to  think  so,  but,  may  be,  o'erlooked 
its  chief  merit,  that  of  filling  up  a  whole  page.  I  had  once 
deemed  sonnets  of  unrivalled  use  that  way,  but  your  Epi- 
taphs, I  find,  are  the  more  diffuse.  '  Edmund'  still  holds 
its  place  among  your  best  verses.  '  Ah  !  fair  delights'  to 
'roses  round,'  in  your  Poem  called  'Absence,'  recal  (none 
more  forcibly)  to  my  mind  the  tones  in  which  you  recited 
it.  I  will  not  notice,  in  this  tedious  (to  you)  manner,  ver- 
ses Avhich  have  been  so  long  delightful  to  me,  and  which 
you  already  know  my  opinion  of.  Of  this  kind  are  Bowles, 
Priestly,  and  that  most  exquisite  and  most  Bowles-like  of 
all,  the  nineteenth  effusion.  It  would  have  better  ended 
with  '  agony  of  care  :'  the  two  last  lines  are  obvious  and 
unnecessary,  and  you  need  not  now  make  fourteen  lines  of 
it ;  now  it  is  rechristened  from  a  Sonnet  to  an  Effusion. 
Schiller  might  have  written  the  twentieth  effusion :  'tis 
worthy  of  him  in  any  sense.  I  was  glad  to  meet  with  those 
lines  you  sent  me,  when  my  sister  was  so  ill ;  I  had  lost  the 
copy,  and  I  felt  not  a  little  proud  at  seeing  my  name  in 
your  verse.  The  complaint  of  Ninathoma  (first  stanza  in 
particular)  is  the  best,  or  only  good  imitation,  of  Ossian 
I  ever  saw — your  '  Restless  Gale'  excepted.  '  To  an  In- 
fant' is  most  sweet ;  is  not  'foodful,'  though  very  harsh. 
Would  not  '  dulcet'  fruit  be  less  harsh,  or  some  other 
friendly  bi-syllable  ?     In  '  Edmund,'  '  Frenzy  !  fierce-eyed 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  33 

cliikr  is  not  so  well  as  'frantic,'  though  that  is  an  epithet 
adding  nothing  to  the  meaning.  Slander  couching  was 
better  than  '  squatting.'  In  the  'Man  of  Ross,'  it  was  a 
better  line  thus : 

'  If  'ncath  this  roof  thy  ■wine-cbeered  moments  pass,' 

than  as  it  stands  now.  Time  nor  nothing  can  reconcile 
me  to  the  concluding  five  lines  of  '  Kosciusko  :'  call  it  any- 
thing you  will  but  sublime.  In  my  twelfth  effusion  I  had 
rather  have  seen  what  I  wrote  myself,  though  they  bear  no 
comparison  with  your  exquisite  lines — 

'  On  rose-leaf'd-beds  amid  your  faery  bowers/  <tc. 

"  I  love  my  sonnets  because  they  are  the  reflected  im- 
ages of  my  own  feelings  at  different  times.  To  instance, 
in  the  thirteenth — 

'How  reason  reeled,'  &c., 

are  good  lines,  but  must  spoil  the  whole  with  me,  who 
know  it  is  only  a  fiction  of  yours,  and  that  the  '  rude  dash- 
ings'  did  in  fact  not  'rock  mo  to  repose.'  I  grant  the 
same  objection  applies  not  to  the  former  sonnet ;  but  still 
I  love  my  own  feelings ;  they  are  dear  to  memory,  though 
they  now  and  then  wake  a  sigh  or  a  tear.  '  Thinking  on 
divers  things  foredone,'I  charge  you,  Coleridge,  spare  my 
ewe-lambs  ;  and  though  a  gentleman  may  borrow  six  lines 
in  an  epic  poem  (I  should  have  no  objection  to  borrow  five 
hundred,  and  without  acknowledging),  still  in  a  sonnet,  a 
personal  poem,  I  do  not  '  ask  my  friend  the  aiding  verse  ;' 
I  would  not  wrong  your  feelings,  by  proposing  any  im- 
provements (did  I  think  myself  capable  of  suggesting 
'em)  in  such  personal  poems  as  '  Thou  bleedest,  my  poor 
heart,' — 'od  so, — I  am  caught — I  have  already  done  it ; 


^4  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

but  that  simile  I  propose  abridging,  would  not  change  the 
feeling  or  introduce  any  alien  ones.  Do  you  understand 
me  ?  In  the  twenty-eighth,  however,  and  in  the  '  Sigh, 
and  that  composed  at  Clevedon,  things  that  come  from 
the  heart  direct,  not  by  the  medium  of  the  fancy,  I  would 
not  suggest  an  alteration.  When  my  blank  verse  is 
finished,  or  any  long  fancy  poem,  'propino  tibi  alteran- 
dum,  cut-up-andum,  abridgandum,' just  what  you  Avill  with 
it;  but  spare  my  ewe-lambs!  That^to'Mrs.  Siddons,' 
now,  you  were  welcome  to  improve,  if  it  had  been  worth 
it;  but  I  say  unto  you  again,  Coleridge,  spare  my  ewe- 
lambs  !  I  must  confess  were  they  mine,  I  should  omit,  in 
editione  secundS.,  effusions  two  and  three,  because  satiric, 
and  below  the  dignity  of  the  poet  of  '  Religious  Musings,' 
fifth,  seventh,  half  of  the  eighth,  that  '  Written  in  early 
youth,'  as  far  as  '  thousand  eyes,' — though  I  part  not  un- 
reluctantly  with  that  lively  line — 

*  Chaste  joyance  dancing  in  her  bright  blue  eyes,' 

and  one  or  two  just  thereabouts.  But  I  would  substitute 
for  it  that  sweet  poem  called  '  Recollection,'  in  the  fifth 
number  of  the  Watchman,  better  I  think,  than  the  re- 
mainder of  this  poem,  though  not  differing  materially :  as 
the  poem  now  stands  it  looks  altogether  confused  ;  and  do 
not  omit  those  lines  upon  the  'Early  Blossom,' in  your 
sixth  number  of  the  Watchman  ;  and  I  would  omit  the  tenth 
effusion,  or  what  would  do  better,  alter  and  improve  the  last 
four  lines.  In  fact,  I  suppose,  if  they  were  mine,  I  should 
not  omit  'em ;  but  your  verse  is,  for  the  most  part,  so  ex- 
quisite, that  I  like  not  to  see  aught  of  meaner  matter  mixed 
with  it.  Forgive  my  petulance,  and  often,  I  fear,  ill- 
founded  criticisms,  and  forgive  me  that  I  have,  by  thia 
time,  made  your  eyes  and  head  ache  with  my  long  letter ; 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  35 

bat  I  cannot  forego  hastily  the  pleasure  and  pride  of  thus 
conversing  with  you.  You  did  not  tell  me  whether  I  was 
to  include  the  '  Condones  ad  Populum'  in  my  remarks  on 
your  poems.  They  are  not  unfrequcntly  sublime,  and  I 
think  you  could  not  do  better  than  to  turn  'em  into  verse — 

if  you  have   nothing   else  to  do.     A ,  I   am  sorry  to 

say,  is  a  confirmed  Atheist ;  S ,  a  cold-hearted,  ■vvell- 

bred,  conceited  disciple  of  Godwin,  does  him  no  good. 

"  How  I  sympathise  with  you  on  the  dull  duty  of  a  re- 
viewer, and  heartily  damn  with  you  Ned  E and  the 

Prosodist.  I  shall,  however,  wait  impatiently  for  the  ar- 
ticles in  the  Critical  Review,  next  month,  because  they  are 
yours.  Young  Evans  (W.  Evans,  a  branch  of  a  family 
you  were  once  so  intimate  with)  is  come  into  our  office, 
and  sends  his  love  to  you  !  Coleridge  !  I  devoutly  wish 
that  Fortune,  who  has  made  sport  with  you  so  long,  may 
play  one  freak  more,  throw  you  into  London,  or  some 
spot  near  it,  and  there  snug-ify  you  for  life.  'Tis  a  selfish, 
but  natural  wish  for  me,  cast  as  I  am  'on  life's  Avide  plain, 
friendless.'  Are  you  acquainted  with  Bowles  ?  I  see  by 
his  last  Elegy,  (written  at  Bath,)  you  are  near  neighbors. 
Thursday. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in  your 
stricture  upon  my  sonnet  '  To  Innocence.'  To  men  whose 
hearts  are  not  quite  deadened  by  their  commerce  with  the 
world,  innocence  (no  longer  familiar)  becomes  an  awful 
idea.  So  I  felt  when  I  wrote  it.  Your  other  censures 
(qualified  and  sweetened,  though,  Avith  praises  somewhat 
extravagant)  I  perfectly  coincide  with  ;  yet  I  choose  to  re- 
tain the  world  '  lunar' — indulge  a  '  lunatic'  in  his  loyalty 
to  his  mistress  the  moon  !  I  have  just  been  reading  a 
most  pathetic  copy  of  verses  on  Sophia  Pringle,  Avho  was 
hanged  and  burnt  for  coining.     One  of  the  strokes  of  pa- 


36  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

.thos  (which  are  very  many,  all  somewhat  obscure),  is  '  She 
lifted  up  her  guilty  forger  to  heaven.'  A  note  explains, 
by  '  forger'  her  right  hand,  Avith  which  she  forged  or 
coined  the  base  metal.  For  pathos  read  bathos.  You 
have  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  my  blank  verse  by  your 
'  Religious  Musings.'  I  think  it  will  come  to  nothing.  I  do 
not  like  'em  enough  to  send  'em.  I  have  just  been  reading  a 
book,  which  I  may  be  too  partial  to,  as  it  was  the  delight  of 
my  childhood  ;  but  I  will  recommend  it  to  you  ; — it  is  Izaak 
Walton's  '  Complete  Angler.'  All  the  scientific  part  you  may 
omit  in  reading.  The  dialogue  is  very  simple,  full  of  pas- 
toral beauties,  and  will  charm  you.  Many  pretty  old 
verses  are  interspersed.  This  letter,  which  would  be_a 
week's  work  reading  only,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  answer 
it  in  less  than  a  month,  I  shall  be  richly  content  with  a 
letter  from  you  some  day  early  in  July ;  though,  if  you 
get  any  how  settled  before  then,  pray  let  me  know  it  im- 
mediately ;  'twould  give  me  much  satisfaction.  Concern- 
ing the  Unitarian  chapel,  the  salary  is  the  only  scruple 
that  the  most  rigid  moralist  would  admit  as  valid.  Con- 
cerning the  tutorage,  is  not  the  salary  low,  and  absence 
from  your  family  unavoidable  ?  London  is  the  only  fos- 
tering soil  for  genius.  Nothing  more  occurs  just  now  ;  so 
I  will  leave  jon,  in  mercy,  one  small  white  spot  empty  be- 
low, to  repose  your  eyes  upon,  fatigued  as  they  must  be, 
with  the  wilderness  of  words  they  have  by  this  time  pain- 
fully travelled  through.  God  love  you,  Coleridge,  and 
prosper  you  through  life  ;  though  mine  will  be  loss  if  your 
lot  is  to  be  cast  at  Bristol,  or  at  Nottingham,  or  any- 
where but  London.     Our  loves  to  Mrs.  C. .  C.  L." 

"Friday/,  lOf/t  June,  1796." 

Coleridge,   settled  in   his   melancholy  cottage,  invited 
Lamb  to  visit  him.     The  hope — the  expectation — the  dis- 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  37 

appuintment,  are  depicted  in  tlic  following  letter,  written 
in  the  summer  of  tlie  eventful  year  1796. 


TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  July  1st,  1796. 

"  The  first  moment  I  can  come  I  will ;  but  my  hopes  of 
coming  yet  a  while,  yet  hang  on  a  ticklish  thread.  The 
coach  I  come  by  is  immaterial,  as  I  shall  so  easily,  by 
your  direction,  find  je  out.  My  mother  is  grown  so  en- 
tirfely  helpless  (not  having  any  use  of  her  limbs)  that  Mary 
is  necessarily  confined  from  ever  sleeping  out,  she  being  her 
bed-fellow.  She  thanks  you  though,  and  will  accompany 
me  in  spirit.  Most  exquisite  are  the  lines  from  Withers. 
Your  own  lines,  introductory  to  your  poem  on  '  Self,'  run 
smoothly  and  pleasurably,  and  I  exhort  you  to  continue 
'em.  What  shall  I  say  to  your  '  Dactyls  ?'  They  are 
what  you  would  call  good  per  se,  but  a  parody  on  some 
of  'em  is  just  now  suggesting  itself,  and  you  shall  have  it 
rough  and  unlicked ;  I  mark  with  figures  the  lines  paro- 
died : — 

i. — Sbrely  your  Dactyls  do  drag  along  limp-footed. 

5. — Sad  is  the  measure  that  hangs  a  clog  round  'em  so. 

6. — Meagre  and  languid,  proclaiming  its  wretchedness. 

1. — Weary,  unsatisfied,  not  a  little  sick  of 'em. 
11. — Cold  is  my  tired  heart,  I  have  no  charity. 

2. — Painfully  travelling  thus  over  the  rugged  road. 

7. — 0  begone,  measure,  half  Latin,  half  English,  then, 
12. — Dismal  your  Dactyls  are,  God  help  ye,  rhyming  ones  ! 

"  I  possibly  may  not  couie  this  fortnight ;  therefore,  all 
thou  hast  to  do  is  not  to  look  for  me  any  particular  day, 
only  to  write  word  immediately,  if  at  any  time  you  quit 
Bristol,  lest  I  come  and  Taffy  be  not  at  homo.     I  Jiope  I 

can  come  in  a  day  or  two  ;  but  young  S ,  of  my  office, 

is  suddenly  taken  ill  in  this  very  nick  of  time,  and  I  must 
4 


38  LETTERS   TO    COLrRlDGE. 

officiate  for  him  till  he  can  come  to  work  again :  had  the 
knave  gone  sick,  and  died,  and  been  buried  at  any  other 
time,  philosophy  might  have  afforded  one  comfort,  but  just 
now  I  have  no  patience  with  him.  Quarles  I  am  as  great 
a  stranger  to  as  I  was  to  Withers.  I  wish  you  would  try 
and  do  something  to  bring  our  elder  bards  into  more 
general  fame.  I  writhe  with  indignation  when,  in  books  of 
criticism,  where  common-place  quotation  is  heaped  upon 
quotation,  I  find  no  mention  of  such  men  as  Massinger,  or 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  men  with  whom  succeeding  dra- 
matic writers  (Otway  alone  excepted)*  can  bear  no.  manner 
of  comparison.  Stupid  Knox  hath  noticed  none  of  'em 
among  his  extracts. 

"  Thursday. — Mrs.  C can  scarce  guess  how  she  has 

gratified  me  by  her  very  kind  letter  and  sweet  little  poem. 
I  feel  that  I  should  thank  her  in  rhyme,  but  she  must  take 
my  acknowledgment,  at  present,  in  plain  honest  prose. 
The  uncertainty  in  which  I  yet  stand,  whether  I  can  come 
or  no,  damps  my  spirits,  reduces  me  a  degree  below  pro- 
saical,  and  keeps  me  in  a  suspense  that  fluctuates  between 
hope  and  fear.  Hope  is  a  charming,  lively,  blue-eyed 
wench,  and  I  am  always  glad  of  her  company,  but  could 
dispense  with  the  visitor  she  brings  with  her — her  younger 
sister.  Fear,  a  white-livered,  lily-cheeked,  bashful,  palpita- 

*  An  exception  he  certainly  would  not  have  made  a  few  j-ears  afterwards; 
for  he  Used  to  mention  two  prett}'  lines  in  the  "  Orphan," 

"  Sweet  as  the  shepherd's  pipe  upon  the  mountains, 
With  all  his  fleecy  flock  at  feed  beside  him.,'' 

as  a  redeeming  passage  amidst  mere  stage  trickeries.  The  great  merit  ■which 
lies  in  the  construction  of  "Venice  Preserved,"  was  not  in  his  line  of  ap. 
preciation  ;  and  he  thought  Thomson's  reference  to  Otway 's  ladies— 

"  Poor  JMonimia  moans, 

And  Eelvidera  pours  her  soul  ia  love,'' 

worth  both  heroines. 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  39 

ting,  awkward  hussy,  that  hangs,  like  a  green  girl,  at  her 
sister's  apron-strings,  and  will  go  with  her  whithersoever 
she  goes.  For  the  life  and  soul  of  me,  I  could  not  improve 
those  lines  in  your  poem  on  the  Prince  and  Princess,  so  I 
changed  them  to  what  you  bid  me,  and  left  'em  at  Perry's.* 
I  think  'em  altogether  good,  and  do  not  see  why  you  were 
solicitous  about  any  alteration.  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but 
will  make  it  my  business  to  see,  to-day's  Chronicle,  for 
your  verses  on  Ilorne  Tooke.  Dyer  stanza'd  him  in  one 
of  the  papers  tother  day,  but,  I  think,  unsuccessfully. 
Tooke's  friends  meeting  was,  I  suppose,  a  dinner  of  condo- 
lence.f  I  am  not  sorry  to  find  you  (for  all  Sara)  immersed 
in  clouds  of  smoke  and  metaphysics.  You  know  I  had  a 
sneaking  kindness  for  this  last  noble  science,  and  you  taught 
me  some  smattering  of  it.  I  look  to  become  no  mean  pro- 
ficient under  your  tuition.  Coleridge,  what  do  you  mean 
by  saying  you  wrote  to  me  about  Plutarch  and  Porphyry  ? 
I  received  no  such  letter,  nor  remember  a  syllable  of  the 
matter,  yet  am  not  apt  to  forget  any  part  of  your  epistles, 
least  of  all,  an  injunction  like  that.  I  will  cast  about  for 
'em,  tho'  I  am  a  sad  hand  to  know  what  books  are  worth, 
and  both  these  worthy  gentlemen  are  alike  out  of  my  line. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  less  suspensive,  and  in  better  cue  to 
write,  so  good  bye  at  present. 

"  Friday  Evening. — That  execrable  aristocrat  and  knave 

R- has  given  me  an  absolute  refusal  of  leave.     The 

poor  man  cannot  guess  at  my  disappointment.  Is  it  not 
hard,  'this  dread  dependence  on  the  low-bred  mind?' 
Continue  to  write  to  me  tho',  and  I  must  be  content.  Our 
loves  and  best  good  wishes  attend  upon  you  both. 

"Lamb.'- 

*  Smug  "  occasional"  verses  of  Coleridge's  written  to  order  for  the  Morning 
Chronicle. 

t  This  was  lust  after  the  Westminster  Election,  in  which  Mr.  Tooke  wai 
defeated. 


40  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

"  S did  return  but  there  are  two  or  three  more  \\l 

and  absent,  which  was  the  plea  for  refusing  me.     I  shall 
never  have  heart  to  ask  for  holidays  again.     The  man  next 

him  in  office,  C ,  furnished  him  with  the  objections. 

"  C.  Lamb." 

The  little  copy  of  verses  in  which  Lamb  commemorated 
and  softened  his  disappointment,  bearing  date  (a  most  un- 
usual circumstance  with  Lamb),  5th  July,  1796,  was  in- 
closed in  a  letter  of  the  following  day,  which  refers  to  a 
scheme  Coleridge  had  formed  of  settling  in  London  on  an 
invitation  to  share  the  Editorship  of  the  Morning  Chro- 
nicle. The  poem  includes  a  lamentation  over  a  fantastical 
loss — that  of  a  draught  of  the  Avon  "  which  Shakspeare 
drank ;"  somewhat  strangely  confounding  the  Avon  of 
Stratford  with  that  of  Bristol.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
Shakspeare  knew  the  taste  of  the  waves  of  one  Avon  more 
than  of  the  other,  or  whether  Lamb  would  not  have  found 
more  kindred  with  the  world's  poet  in  a  glass  of  sack,  than 
in  the  water  of  either  stream.  Coleridge  must  have  en- 
joyed the  misplaced  sentiment  of  his  friend,  for  he  was 
singularly  destitute  of  sympathy  with  local  associations, 
which  he  regarded  as  interfering  Avith  the  pure  and  simple 
impression  of  great  deeds  or  thoughts  ;  denied  a  special  in- 
terest to  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae  :  and  instead  of  subscrib- 
ing to  purchase  "  Shakspeare's  House,"  would  scarcely 
have  admitted  the  i^eculiar  sanctity  of  the  spot  whi^h  en 
shrines  his  ashes. 

TO  SARA  AND  HER  SAMUEL. 

"  'Was  it  so  bard  a  thing  ? — I  did  but  ask 
A  fleeting  holidaj'.     One  little  week, 
Or  haply  two,  had  bounded  my  request. 


LETTERS  TO    COLERIDGE.  41 

What,  if  the  jaded  steer,  who  all  day  long 

Had  borne  the  heat  and  labor  of  the  plough, 

When  evening  came,  and  her  sweet  cooling  hour, 

Should  seek  to  trespass  on  a  neighbor  copse, 

Where  greener  herbage  waved,  or  clearer  streams 

Invited  him  to  slake  his  burning  thirst? 

That  man  were  crabbed,  who  should  say  him  nay; 

That  man  were  churlish,  who  should  drive  him  thonce  ! 

A  blessing  light  upon  your  heads,  ye  good, 

Ye  hospitable  pair!     I  may  not  come, 

To  catch  on  Clifden's  heights  the  summer  gale; 

I  may  not  come,  a  pilgriin,  to  the  banks 

Of  Avon,  lucid  stream,  to  taste  the  wave 

Which  Shakspearo  drank,  our  British  Helicon  : 

Or  with  mine  eye  intent  on  Redcliffe  towers, 

To  muse  in  tears  on  that  mysterious  youth. 

Cruelly  slighted,  who  to  London  walls, 

In  evil  hour,  shaped  his  disastrous  course. 

Complaint  begone,  begone,  unkind  reproof; 
Take  up,  my  song,  take  up  a  merrier  strain, 
For  yet  again,  and  lo  !  from  Avon's  vales 
Another  'minstrel'  cometh  !     Youth  endear'd, 
God  and  good  angels  guide  thee  on  thy  way, 
And  gentler  fortunes  wait  the  friends  I  love. 

"  C.  L." 

The  letter  accompanying  tliese  verses  begins  clieerfull;^ 
thus : 

"  What  can  I  do  till  you  send  word  what  priced  and 
placed  house  you  should  like  ?  Islington,  possibly,  you 
^yould  not  like  ;  to  me  'tis  classical  ground.  Knightsbridge 
is  a  desirable  situation  for  the  air  of  the  parks  ;  St.  George's 
Fields  is  convenient  for  its  contiguity  to  the  Bench.  Choose ! 
But  are  you  really  coming  to  town  ?  The  hope  of  it  has 
entirely  disarmed  my  petty  disappointment  of  its  nettles, 
yet  I  rejoice  so  much  on  my  own  account,  that  I  fear  I  do 
not  feel  enough  pure  satisfaction  on  yours.  Why  surely, 
the  joint  editorship  of  the  Chronicle  must  be  very  comfort* 
4* 


42  LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE. 

able  and  secure  living  for  a  man.  But  should  ^lot  you 
read  French,  or  do  you  ?  and  can  you  -write  ^vith  sufficient 
moderation,  as  'tis  called,  when  one  suppresses  the  one 
half  of  what  one  feels  or  could  say  on  a  subject,  to  chime 
in  the  better  with  popular  lukewarmness  ?  White's  '  Let- 
ters' are  near  publication  ;  could  you  review  'em  or  get 
'em  reviewed  ?  Are  you  not  connected  with  the  Critical 
Review  ?  His  frontispiece  is  a  good  conceit — Sir  John 
learning  to  dance  to  please  Madam  Page,  in  dress  of  doub- 
let, &c.,  from  the  upper  half,  and  modern  pantaloons  with 
shoes,  &c.,  of  the  eighteenth  century,  from  the  lower  half; 
and  the  whole  work  is  full  of  goodly  quips  and  rare  fan- 
cies, ^all  deftly  masqued  like  hoar  antiquity' — much  supe- 
rior to  Dr.  Kendrick's  '  Falstaff's  Wedding,'  which  you 
have  seen.  A sometimes  laughs  at  superstition,  and  re- 
ligion, and  the  like.  A  living  fell  vacant  lately  in  the  gift 
of  the  Hospital :  White  informed  him  that  he  stood  a  fair 
chance  for  it.  He  scrupled  and  scrupled  about  it,  and  at 
last,  to  use  his  own  words,  '  tampered'  Avith  Godwin  to 
know  whether  the  thing  was  honest  or  not.     Godwin  said 

nay  to    it,  and   A rejected  the  living  !     Could  the 

blindest  poor  papist  have  bowed  more  servilely  to  his  priest 
or  casuist  ?  W^hy  sleep  the  Watchman's  answers  to  that 
Godwin  ?  I  beg  you  will  not  delay  to  alter,  if  you  mean 
to  keep  those  last  lines  I  sent  you.  Do  that  and  read 
these  for  your  pains  : — 

TO  THE  POET  COWPER. 

"Cowper,  I  thank  my  God  that  thou  art  heal'd  ! 
Thine  was  the  sorest  malady  of  all ; 
.  And  I  am  sad  to  think  that  it  should  light 

Upon  the  worthy  head  !     But  thou  art  heal'd, 
And  thou  art  yet,  we  trust,  the  destined  man, 
Born  to  reanimate  the  lyre,  chords 
Have  slumber'd,  and  have  idle  lain  so  long; 
To  tht  immortal  sounding  of  whose  strings 
Did  Milton  frame  the  stately-paced  verse; 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDaE.  43 

Among  whose  wires  with  light  finger  playing, 
Our  elder  bard,  Spenser,  a  gentle  name. 
The  lady  Muses'  dearest  darling  child, 
Elicited  the  deftest  tunes  yet  heard 
Id  hall  or  bovver,  taking  the  delicate  ear 
Of  Sidney  and  his  peerless  Maiden  Queen. 

Thou,  theni  take  up  the  mighty  epic  strain, 

Cowper,  of  England's  Bards,  the  wisest  and  the  best. 


1796. 


"  I  have  read  your  climax  of  praises  in  tliose  three  Re 
viewers.  These  mighty  spouters  out  of  panegyric  waters 
have,  two  of  'em,  scattered  their  spray  even  upon  me,  and 
the  waters  are  cooling  and  refreshing.  Prosaically,  the 
Monthly  reviewers  have  made  indeed  a  large  article  of  it, 
and  done  you  justice.  The  Critical  have,  in  their  wisdom, 
selected  not  the  very  best  specimens,  and  notice  not  ex- 
cept as  one  name  on  the  muster-roll,  the  '  Religious  Mus- 
ings.' I  suspect  Master  Dyer  to  have  been  the  Avriter  of 
that  article,  as  the  substance  of  it  was  the  very  remarks 
and  the  very  language  he  used  to  me  one  day.  I  fear 
you  will  not  accord  entirely  Avith  my  sentiments  of  Cow- 
per,  as  expressed  above  (perhaps  scarcely  just) :  but  the 
poor  gentleman  has  just  recovered  from  his  lunacies,  and 
that  begets  pity,  and  pity  love,  and  love  admiration  ;  and 
then  it  goes  hard  with  people  but  they  lie  !  Have  you 
read  the  Ballad  called 'Leonora,' in  the  second  number 
of  the  Monthly  Magazine  !  If  you  have !  !  !  !  There  is 
another  fine  song,  from  the  same  author  (Bdger),  in  the 
third  number,  of  scarce  inferior  merit;  and  (vastly  below 
these)  there  are  some  happy  specimens  of  English  hex 
ameters,  in  an  imitation  of  Ossian,  in  the  fifth  nuu)1)cr. 
For  your  Dactyls — I  am  sorry  you  are  so  sore  about  'em — ■ 
a  very  Sir  Fretful!  In  good  troth,  the  Dactyls  are  good 
Dactyls,  but  their  measure  is  naught.     Be  not  yourself 


44  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDaE. 

*  half  anger,  half  agony,'  if  I  pronounce  your  darling  lines 
not  to  be  the  best  you  ever  wrote  in  all  your  life — you 
have  written  much. 

"  Have  a  care,  good  Master  Poet,  of  the  Statute  de  Con- 
tumelia.  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  Madame  jMara, — 
harlot  and  naughty  things  ?*  The  goodness  of  the  verse 
would  not  save  you  in  a  court  of  justice.  But  are  you 
really  coming  to  town  ?  Coleridge,  a  gentleman  called  in 
London  lately  from  Bristol,  and  inquired  whether  there 
were  any  of  the  family  of  a  Mr.  Chambers  living  ;  this 
Mr.  Chambers,  he  said,  had  been  the  making  of  a  friend's 
fortune,  who  wished  to  make  some  return  for  it.  He 
went  away  without  seeing  her.  Now,  a  Mrs.  Reynolds, 
a  very  intimate  friend  of  ours,  whom  you  have  seen 
at  our  house,  is  the  only  daughter,  and  all  that  sur- 
vives, of  Mr.  Chambers  ;  and  a  very  little  supply  would  be 
of  service  to  her,  for  she  married  very  unfortunately,  and 
has  parted  with  her  husband.  Pray  find  out  this  Mr. 
Pember  (for  that  was  the  gentleman's  friend's  name) ;  he 
is  an  attorney,  and  lives  at  Bristol.  Find  him  out,  and  ac- 
quaint him  with  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and  offer 
to  be  the  medium  of  supply  to  Mrs.  Reynolds,  if  he  chooses 
to  make  her  a  present.  She  is  in  very  distressed  circum- 
stances, Mr.  Pember,  attorney,  Bristol.  Mr.  Chambers 
lived  in  the  Temple ;  Mrs.  Reynolds,  his  daughter,  was 
my  schoolmistress,  and  is  in  the  room  at  this  present  writ- 
ing. This  last  circumstance  induced  me  to  write  po  soon 
tigain.  I  have  not  further  to  add.  Our  loves  to  Sara. 
Thursday.  C.  Lamb." 

*  "I  detest 

These  scented  rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng. 
Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast 
In  intricacies  of  Liborious  song." 

Lines  composed  in  a  Concert  Room,  by  S.    T.  O, 


CHAPTEK  II. 

LETTEUS   OP  LAME  TO  COLERIDGE,  CHIEFLY  RELATtXG  TO   THE    DEATH  .OF    MRS. 
LAMB,  AND  MISS  LAMB's  SDBSEQUEIiT  CONDITION. 

The  autumn  of  1796  found  Lamb  engaged  all  the  morn 
mg  in  task-work  at  the  India  House,  and  all  the  evening 
in  attempting  to  amuse  his  father  by  playing  cribbage ; 
sometimes  snatching  a  few  minutes  for  his  only  pleasure, 
writing  to  Coleridge ;  while  Miss  Lamb  was  down  to  a 
state  of  extreme  nervous  misery,  by  attention  to  needle- 
work by  day,  and  to  her  mother  by  night,  until  the  in- 
sanity, which  had  been  manifested  more  than  once,  broke 
out  into  frenzy,  which,  on  Thursday,  22d  of  September, 
proved  fatal  to  her  mother.  The  following  account  of 
the  proceedings  on  the  inquest,  copied  from  the  "  Times" 
of  Monday,  26th  September,  1796,  supplies  the  details  of 
this  terrible  calamity,  doubtless  with  accuracy,  except  that 
it  would  seem,  from  Lamb's  ensuing  letter  to  Coleridge, 
that  he,  and  not  the  landlord,  took  the  knife  from  the  un- 
conscious hand. 

"On  Friday  afternoon,  the  coroner  and  a  jury  sat  on 
the  body  of  a  lady  in  the  neighborhood  of  Holborn,  who 
died  in  consequence  of  a  wound  from  her  daughter  the  pre- 
ceding day.  It  appeared,  by  the  evidence  adduced,  that, 
while  the  family  were  preparing  for  dinner,  the  young 
lady  seized  a  case-knife  lying  on  the  table,  and  in  a  men- 
acing manner  pursued  a  little  ^nA,  her  apprentice,  round 

(45) 


46  LETTERS   TO    COLEEIDaE. 

the  room.  On  the  calls  of  her  infirm  mother  to  forbear, 
she  renounced  her  first  object,  and  witli  loud  shrieks,  ap- 
proached her  parent.  The  child,  by  her  cries,  quick Ij 
brought  up  the  landlord  of  the  house,  but  too  late.  The 
dreadful  scene  presented  to  him  the  mother  lifeless,  pierced 
to  the  heart,  on  a  chair,  her  daughter  yet  wildly  standing 
over  her  with  the  fatal  knife,  and  the  old  man,  her  father, 
weeping  by  her  side,  himself  bleeding  at  the  forehead 
from  the  effects  of  a  severe  blow  he  received  from  one  of 
the  forks  she  had  been  madly  hurling  about  the  room. 

"  For  a  few  days  prior  to  this,  the  family  had  observed 
some  symptoms  of  insanity  in  her,  which  had  so  much  in- 
creased on  the  Wednesday  evening,  that  her  brother, 
early  the  next  morning,  went  to  Dr.  Pitcairn,  but  that 
gentleman  was  not  at  home. 

"  It  seems  the  young  lady  had  been  once  before  de- 
ranged. 

"  The  jury,  of  course,  brought  in  their  verdict — Xw- 

The  following  is  Lamb's  account  of  the  event  to  Cole* 
ridge  : — 

"September  27th,  1796. 

"  My  dearest  Friend. — White,  or  some  of  my  friends,  or 
the  public  p-ipers,  by  this  time  may  have  informed  yon 
of  the  terrible  calamities  that  have  fallen  on  our  family,. 

*  A  statement  nearly  similar  to  this  will  be  found  in  several  other  journals 
of  the  day,  and  in  the  Annual  Register  for  the  year.  The  "True  Briton" 
adds : — "  It  appears  she  had  been  before,  in  the  earlier  part  of  her  life,  de- 
ranged, from  the  harassing  fatigues  of  too  much  business.  As  her  carriage 
towards  her  mother  had  always  been  affectionate  in  the  extreme,  it  is  believed 
her  increased  attachment  to  her,  as  her  infirmities  called  for  it  by  day  and 
by  night,  caused  her  loss  of  reason  at  this  time.  It  has  been  statf  d  in  some 
of  the  morning  pnpcrs  that  she  has  an  insane  brother  in  confinement, 
but  this  is  without  foundation."  None  of  the  accounts  give  the  tames  of  tho 
sufferers ;  but  in  the  inde.^  to  the  Annual  Register,  the  anonymous  account 
js  referred  to  with  Mrs.  Lamb's  name. 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  47 

I  will  only  give  you  the  outlines  : — My  poor  dear,  dearest 
sister,  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  has  been  the  death  of  her  OAvn 
raiither.  I  was  at  hand  only  time  enough  to  snatcli  the 
knife  out  of  her  grasp.  She  is  at  present  in  a  madhouse, 
fi'om  whence  I  fear  she  must  be  moved  to  an  hospital. 
God  has  preserved  to  me  my  senses — I  eat  and  drink, 
and  sleep,  and  have  my  judgment,  I  believe,  very  sound. 
My  poor  father  was  slightly  wounded,  and  I  am  left  to 
take  care  of  him  and  my  aunt.  Mr.  Norris,  of  the  Blue- 
coat  School,  has  been  very  kind  to  us,  and  we  have  no 
other  friend ;  but,  thank  God,  I  am  very  calm  and  com- 
posed, and  able  to  do  the  best  that  remains  to  do.  Write 
as  religious  a  letter  as  possible,  but  no  mention  of  what  is 
.o;one  and  done  with.  With  me  '  the  former  thino;s  are 
passed  away,'  and  I  have  something  more  to  do  than  to 
feel. 

"  God  Almighty  have  us  well  in  his  keeping. 

"  C.  Lamb." 

"  ^lention  nothing  of  poetry.  I  have  destroyed  every 
vestige  of  past  vanities  of  that  kind.  Do  as  you  please, 
but  if  you  publish,  publish  mine  (I  give  free  leave)  without 
name  or  initial,  and  never  send  me  a  book,  I  charge  you. 

"  Your  own  judgment  will  convince  you  not  to  take  any 
notice  of  this  yet  to  your  dear  wife.  You  look  after  your 
family — I  have  my  reason  and  strength  left  to  take  care 
of  mine.  I  charge  you,  don't  think  of  coming  to  see  me. 
Write.  I  will  not  see  you  if  you  come.  God  Almighty 
love  you  and  all  of  us.  C.  Lamb." 

After  the  inquest,  INIiss  Lamb  was  placed  in  an  Asylum, 
where  she  Avas,  in  a  sliort  time,  restored  to  roason.  Tho 
followincr  is  Lamb's  next  letter  : — 


iB 


LETTERS  TO  COLERIDGE. 


TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"October  3d,  17%. 
"  My  dearest  Friend. — Your  letter  was  an  inestimable 
treasure  to  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  I  know,  to 
know  that  our  prospects  are  somewhat  brighter.  My  poor 
dear,  dearest  sister,  the  unhappy  and  unconscious  instru- 
ment of  the  Almighty's  judgments  on  our  house,  is  restored 
to  her  senses  ;  to  a  dreadful  sense  and  recollection  of  what 
has  past,  awful  to  her  mind  and  impressive  (as  it  must  be 
to  the  end  of  life),  but  tempered  with  religious  resignation 
and  the  reasonings  of  a  sound  judgment,  which,  in  this 
early  stage,  knows  how  to  distinguish  between  a  deed  com- 
mitted in  a  transient  fit  of  frenzy,  and  the  terrible  guilt 
of  a  mother's  murder.  I  have  seen  her.  I  found  her,  this 
morning,  calm  and  serene ;  far,  very,  very  far  from  an  in- 
decent forgetful  serenity ;  she  has  a  most  affectionate  and 
tender  concern  for  what  has  happened.  Indeed,  from  the 
beginning,  frightful  and  hopeless  as  her  disorder  seemed,  I 
had  confidence  enough  in  her  strength  of  mind  and  reli- 
gious principle,  to  look  forward  to  a  time  when  even  she 
might  recover  tranquillity.  God  be  praised,  Coleridge,  won- 
derful as  it  is  to  tell,  I  have  never  once  been  otherwise 
than  collected  and  calm ;  even  on  the  dreadful  day,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  terrible  scene,  I  preserved  a  tranquillity  which 
bystanders  may  have  construed  into  indifference — a  tran- 
quillity not  of  despair.  Is  it  folly  or  sin  in  me  to  say  that 
it  was  a  religious  principle  that  most  supported  me  ?  I 
allow  much  to  other  favorable  circumstances.  I  felt  that 
I  had  something  else  to  do  than  to  regret.  On  that  first 
evening,  my  aunt  was  lying  insensible,  to  all  appearance 
liice  one  dying, — my  father,  with  his  poor  forehead  plais- 
tered  over,  from  a  wound  he  had  received  from  a-daughter 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  49 

dearly  loved  by  him,  and  who  loved  him  no  less  dearly — 
my  mother  a  dead  and  murdered  corpse  in  the  next  room 
— yet  was  I  wonderfully  supported.  I  closed  not  my  eyes 
in  sleep  that  night,  but  lay  without  terrors  and  without 
despair.  I  have  lost  no  sleep  since.  I  had  been  long 
used  not  to  rest  in  things  of  sense — had  endeavored  after 
a  comprehension  of  mind,  unsatisfied  with  the  '  ignorant 
present  time,'  and  tlds^  kept  me  up.  I  had  the  whole  weight 
of  the  family  thrown  on  me ;  for  my  brother,  little  disposed 
(I  speak  not  without  tenderness  for  him)  at  anytime  to 
take  care  of  old  age  and  infirmities,  had  nov/,  with  his  bad 
leg,  an  exemption  from  such  duties,  and  I  was  now  left  alone. 
One  little  incident  may  serve  to  make  you  understand  my 
way  of  managing  my  mind.  Within  a  day  or  two  after 
the  fatal  one,  we  dressed  for  dinner  a  tongue  which  w^e 
had  had  salted  for  some  weeks  in  the  house.  As  I  sat 
down,  a  feeling  like  remorse  struck  me ; — this  tongue  poor 
Mary  got  for  me,  and  can  I  partake  of  it  now,  when  she 
is  far  away  ?  A  thought  occurred  and  relieved  me — if  I 
give  in  to  this  way  of  feeling,  there  is  not  a  chair,  a  room, 
an  object  in  our  rooms,  that  will  not  awaken  the  keenest 
griefs ;  I  must  rise  above  such  weaknesses.  I  hope  this 
was  not  want  of  true  feeling.  I  did  not  let  this  carry  me, 
though,  too  far.  On  the  very  second  day,  (I  date  from 
the  day  of  horrors,)  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  there  were  a 
matter  of  twenty  people,  I  do  think,  supping  in  our  room  ; 
they  prevailed  on  me  to  eat  ivith  them  (for  to  eat  I  never 
refused).  They  were  all  making  merry  in  the  room  1  Some 
had  come  from  friendship,  some  from  busy  curiosity,  and 
some  from  interest ;  I  was  going  to  partake  with  them ; 
when  my  recollection  came  that  my  poor  dead  mother  was 
lying  in  the  next  room — the  very  next  room  ; — a  mother 
who,  through  life,  wished  nothing  but  her  children's  wel- 
5 


50  LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE. 

fare.  Indignation,  the  rage  of  grief,  something  like  re- 
morse, rushed  upon  my  mind.  In  an  agony  of  emotion  I 
found  my  way  mechanically  to  the  adjoining  room,  and  fell 
on  my  knees  by  the  side  of  her  coffin,  asking  forgiveness 
of  heaven,  and  sometimes  of  her,  for  forgetting  her  so  soon. 
Tranquillity  returned,  and  it  was  the  only  violent  emotion 
that  mastered  me,  and  I  think  it  did  me  good. 

"  I  mention  these  things  because^  I  hate  concealment, 
and  love  to  give  a  faithful  journal  of  what  passes  within 
me.  Our  friends  have  been  very  good.  Sam  Le  Grice, 
who  was  then  in  town,  was  with  me  the  three  or  four  first 
days,  and  was  as  a  brother  to  me,  gave  up  every  hour'of 
his  time,  to  the  very  hurting  of  his  health  and  spirits,  in 
constant  attendance  and  humoring  my  poor  father  ;  talked 
with  him,  read  to  him,  played  at  cribbage  with  him  (for 
so  short  is  the  old  man's  recollection,  that  he  was  play- 
ing at  cards,  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  while  the 
coroner's  inquest  was  sitting  over  the  way !)  Samuel  wept 
tenderly  when  he  went  away,  for  his  mother  wrote  him  a 
very  severe  letter  on  his  loitering  so  long  in  town,  and  ho 
■was  forced  to  go.  Mr.  Norris,  of  Christ's  Hospital,  has 
been  as  a  father  to  me — Mrs.  Norris  as  a  mother;  though 
we  had  few  claims  on  them.  A  gentleman,  brother  to 
my  godmother,  from  whom  we  never  had  right  or  reason 
io  expect  any  such  assistance,  sent  my  father  twenty 
pounds  ;  and  to  crown  all  these  God's  blessings  to  our 
family  at  such  a  time,  an  old  lady,  a  cousin  of  my  father 
and  aunt's,  a  gentlewoman  of  fortune,  is  to  take  my 
aunt  and  make  her  comfortable  for  the  short  remainder 
of  her  days.  My  aunt  is  recovered,  and  as  well  as  ever, 
and  highly  pleased  at  thoughts  of  going — and  has  gener- 
ously given  up  the  interest  of  her  little  money  (wliich  was 
formerly  paid  my  father  for  her  board)  wholely  and  goleJy 


LETTERS  TO    COLERIDGE.  51 

to  my  sister's  use.  Reckoning  this,  we  have  Daddy  and 
I,  fox-  our  two  selves  and  an  old  maid-servant  to  look  after 
him,  when  I  am  out,  Avhicli  will  be  necessary,  170Z.  or 
J  80/.  rather  a-year,  out  of  which  we  can  spare  50/.  or  60/. 
at  least  for  Mary  while  she  stays  at  Islington,  where  she 
must  and  shall  stay  during  her  father's  life,  for  his  and 
her  comfort.  I  know  John  will  make  speeches  about 
it,  but  she  shall  not  go  into  an  hospital.  The  good  lady 
of  the  madhouse,  and.  her  daughter,  an  elegant,  sweet 
behaved  young  lady,  love  her,  and  are  taken  with  her 
amazingly  ;  and  I  know  from  her  own  mouth  she  loves 
them,  and  longs  to  be  with  them  as  much.  Poor  thing, 
they  say  she  was  but  the  other  morning  saying,  she  knew 
she  must  go  to  Bethlem  for  life  ;  that  one  of  her  brothers 
would  have  it  so,  but  the  other  would  wish  it  not,  but  be 
obliged  to  go  with  the  stream  ;  that  she  had  often  as  she 
passed  Bethlem  thought  it  likely,  '  here  it  may  be  my  fate 
to  end  my  days,'  conscious  of  a  certain  flightiness  in  her 
poor  head  oftentimes,  and  mindful  of  more  than  one  severe 
illness  of  that  nature  before.  A  legacy  of  100^.,  which 
my  father  will  have  at  Christmas,  and  this  20/.  I  men- 
tioned before,  with  what  is  in  the  house,  will  much  more 
than  set  us  clear.  If  my  father,  an  old  servant-maid, 
and  I,  can't  live,  and  live  comfortably,  on  130/.  or  120.  a- 
year,  we  ought  to  burn  by  slow  fires ;  and  I  almost  would, 
that  Mary  might  not  go  into  an  hospital.  Let  me  not  leave 
one  unfavorable  impression  on  your  mind  respecting  my 
brother.  Since  this  has  happened,  he  has  been  very  kind 
and  brotherly ;  but  I  fear  for  his  mind — he  has  taken  his 
ease  in  the  world,  and  is  not  fit  himself  to  struggle  with 
difficulties,  nor  has  much  accustomed  himself  to  throw  him- 
self into  their  way ;  and  I  know  his  language  is  already, 
*  Charles,  you  must  take  care  of  yourself,  you  must  not 


62  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

abridge  yourself  of  a  single  pleasure  you  have  been  used 
to,'  &c.,  &c.,  and  in  that  style  of  talking.  But  you,  a,  ne- 
cessarian, can  respect  a  difference  of  mind,  and  love  what 
is  amiable  in  a  character  not  perfect.  He  has  been  very 
good, — but  I  fear  for  his  mind.  Thank  God,  I  can  uncon- 
nect  myself  with  him,  and  shall  manage  all  my  father's 
moneys  in  future  myself,  if  I  take  charge  of  Daddy,  which 
poor  John  has  not  even  hinted  a  wish,  at  any  future  time 
even,  to  share  with  me.  The  lady  at  this  madhouse  as- 
sures me  that  I  may  dismiss  immediately  both  doctor  and 
apothecary,  retaining  occasionally  a  composing  draught 
or  so  for  a  while  ;  and  there  is  a  less  expensive  establish- 
ment in  her  house,  where  she  will  only  not  have  a  room 
and  nurse  to  herself,  for  50Z.  or  guineas  a-year — the  out- 
side would  be  601. — you  know,  by  economy,  how  much 
more  even  I  shall  be  able  to  spare  for  her  comforts.  She 
will,  I  fancy,  if  she  stays,  make  one  of  the  family,  rather 
than  of  the  patients  ;  and  the  old  and  young  ladies  I  like 
exceedingly,  and  she  loves  dearly ;  and  they,  as  the  saying 
is,  take  to  her  very  extraordinarily,  if  it  is  extraordinaiy 
that  people  who  see  my  sister  should  love  her.  Of  all  the 
people  I  ever  saw  in  the  world,  my  poor  sister  was  most 
and  thoroughly  devoid  of  the  least  tincture  of  selfishness. 
I  will  enlarge  upon  her  qualities,  poor  dear,  dearest  soul, 
in  a  future  letter,  for  my  own  comfort,  for  I  understand 
her  thoroughly ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the  most  trying 
situation  that  a  human  being  can  be  found  in,  she  will  be 
found  (I  speak  not  with  sufficient,  humility,  I  fear,  but  hu- 
manly and  foolishly  speaking),  she  will  be  found,  I  trust 
uniformly  great  and  amiable.  God  keep  her  in  her  present 
mind,  to  whom  be  thanks  and  praise  for  all  His  dispensa- 
tions to  mankind  !  C.  Lamb." 


LETTERS    TO    COLEllIDQE.  o3 

'*  Tliese  mentioned  good  fortunes  and  change  of  pros- 
pects had  almost  brought  my  mind  over  to  the  extreme, 
the  very  opposite  to  despair.  I  was  in  danger  of  making 
myself  too  happy.  Your  letter  brought  me  back  to  a  view 
of  things  which  I  had  entertained  from  the  beginning.  I 
hope  (for  Mary  I  can  answer) — but  I  hope  that  /  shall 
through  life  never  have  less  recollection,  nor  a  fainter  im- 
pression, of  what  has  happened  than  I  have  now.  'Tis 
not  a  light  thing,  nor  meant  by  the  Almighty  to  be  re- 
ceived lightly.  I  must  be  serious,  circumspect,  and  deeply 
religious  through  life  ;  and  by  such  means  may  hoth  of  us 
escape  madness  in  future,  if  it  so  please  the  Almighty  ! 

"  Send  me  word  how  it  fares  with  Sara.  I  repeat  it, 
your  letter  was,  and  will  be,  an  inestimable  treasure  to 
me.  You  have  a  view  of  what  my  situation  demands  of 
me,  like  my  own  view,  and  I  trust  a  just  one. 

"  Coleridge,  continue  to  write  ;  but  do  not  for  ever 
oftend  me  by  talking  of  sending  me  cash.  Sincerely,  and 
on  my  soul,  we  do  not  want  it.     God  love  you  both. 

"  I  will  write  again  very  soon.    Do  you  write  directly." 

As  Lamb  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  own  calamity, 
he  found  comfort  in  gently  admonishing  his  friend  on  that 
imbecility  of  purpose  which  attended  the  development  of 
his  mighty  genius.  His  next  letter  commencing  with  this 
office  of  friendship,  soon  reverts  to  the  condition  cf  that 
sufferer,  who  was  endeared  to  him  the  more  because  others 
shrank  from  and  forsook  her. 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"  October  17th,  17£«. 

"  My  dearest  Friend. — I  grieve  from  my  very  soul  to 
observe  you  in  your  plans  of  life,  veering  about  from  this 
5* 


54  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

hope  to  the  other,  and  settling  nowhere.  Is  it  an  unto- 
ward fatality  (speaking  humanly)  that  does  this  for  you — 
a  stubborn,  irresistible  concurrence  of  events — or  lies  the 
fault,  as  I  fear  it  does,  in  your  own  mind  ?  You  seem  to 
be  taking  up  splendid  schemes  of  fortune  only  to  lay  them 
down  again  ;  and  your  fortunes  are  an  igjiis  fatuus  that 
has  been  conducting  you,  in  thought,  from  Lancaster- 
court,  Strand,  to  somewhere  near  Matlock  ;  then  jumping 
across  to  Dr.  Somebody's,  whose  son's  tutor  you  Avere 
likely  to  be  ;  and,  would  to  God,  the  dancing  demon  mai/ 
conduct  you  at  last,  in  peace  and  comfort,  to  the  '  life 
and  labors  of  a  cottager.'  You  see  from  the  above  awk- 
ward playfulness  of  fancy,  that  my  spirits  are  not  quite 
depressed.  I  should  ill  deserve  God's  blessings,  which, 
since  the  late  terrible  event,  have  come  down  in  mercy 
upon  us,  if  I  indulge  regret  or  querulousness.  Mary  con- 
tinues serene  and  cheerful.  I  have  not  by  me  a  little  let- 
ter she  wrote  to  me ;  for,  though  I  see  her  almost  every 
day,  yet  we  delight  to  write  to  one  another,  for  we  can 
scarce  see  each  other  but  in  company  with  some  of  the  people 
of  the  house.  I  have  not  the  letter  by  me,  but  will  quote  from 
memory  what  she  wrote  in  it :  '  I  have  no  bad  terrifying 
dreams.  At  midnight,  when  I  happen  to  aAvake,  the  nurse 
sleeping  by  the  side  of  me,  with  the  noise  of  the  poor  mad 
people  around  me,  I  have  no  fear.  The  spirit  of  my 
mother  seems  to  descend  and  smile  upon  me,  and  bid  me 
live  to  enjoy  the  life  and  reason  which  the  Almighty  has 
given  me.  I  shall  see  her  again  in  heaven ;  she  will  then 
understand  me  better.  My  grandmother,  too,  will  under- 
stand me  better,  and  will  then  say  no  more,  as  she  used 
to  do,  'Polly,  what  are  those  poor  crazy moythered  brains 
of  yours  thinking  of  always  ?'  Poor  Mary !  my  mother 
indeed  never  understood  her  right.     She  loved  her,  as  she 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  55 

loved  US  all  with  a  mother's  love,  but  in  opinion,  in  feeling, 
and  sentiment,  and  disposition,  bore  so  distant  a  resemblance 
to  her  daughter,  that  she  never  understood  her  right ;  never 
could  believe  how  much  she  loved  her ;  but  met  her  caresses, 
her  protestations  of  filial  affection,  too  frequently  with  cold- 
ness and  repulse.  Still  she  was  a  good  mother.  God  forbid  I 
should  think  of  her  but  most  respectfully,  most  aff"cction- 
ately.  Yet  she  would  always  love  my  brother  above  Mary, 
who  was  not  worthy  of  one-tenth  of  that  aff'ection  which 
Mary  had  a  right  to  claim.  But  it  is  my  sister's  gratify- 
ing recollection,  that  every  act  of  duty  and  of  love  she 
could  pay,  every  kindness,  (and  I  speak  true,  when  I  say 
to  the  hurting  of  her  health,  and  most  probably  in  great 
part  to  the  derangement  of  her  senses)  through  along  course 
of  infirmities  and  sickness,  she  could  show  her,  she  ever 
did.  I  will,  some  day,  as  I  promised,  enlarge  to  you  upon 
my  sister's  excellences  ;  'twill  seem  like  exaggeration,  but 
I  will  do  it.  At  present,  short  letters  suit  my  state  of 
mind  best.  So  take  my  kindest  wishes  for  your  comfort 
and  establishment  in  life,  and  for  Sara's  welfare  and  com- 
forts with  you.     God  love  you.     God  love  us  all. 

"  C.  Lamb." 

Miss  Lamb's  gradual  restoration  to  comfort,  and  her 
brother's  earnest  watchfulness  over  it,  are  illustrated  in 
the  followino;  frao-ment  of  a  letter  : — 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  October  28th,  1796. 

"  I  have  satisfaction  in  being  able  to  bid  you  rejoice 
with  me  in  my  sister's  continued  reason,  and  composed- 
ness  of  mind.  Let  us  both  be  thankful  for  it.  I  con- 
tinue to  visit  her  very  frequently,  and  the  people  of  the 


66  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

house  are  vastly  indulgent  to  her  ;  she  is  likely  to  be  as 
comfort;ibly  situated  in  all  respects  as  those  who  pay  twice 
or  thrice  the  sum.  They  love  her,  and  she  loA^es  them, 
and  makes  herself  very  useful  to  them.  Benevolence  sets 
out  on  her  journey  with  a  good  heart,  and  puts  a  good  face 
on  it,  but  is  apt  to  limp  and  grow  feeble,  unless  she  calls 
in  the  aid  of  self-interest,  by  way  of  crutch.  In  Mary's 
case,  as  far  as  respects  those  she  is  with,  'tis  well  that 
these  principles  are  so  likely  to  co-operate.  I  am  rather 
at  a  loss  sometimes  for  books  for  her, — our  reading  is 
somewhat  confined,  and  we  have  nearly  exhausted  our 
London  library.  She  has  her  hands  too  full  of  work  to 
read  much,  but  a  little  she  must  read,  for  reading  was  her 
daily  bread." 

Two  months,  though  passed  by  Lamb  in  anxiety  and 
labor,  but  cheered  by  Miss  Lamb's  continued  possession 
of  reason,  so  far  restored  the  tone  of  his  mind,  that  his 
interest  in  the  volume  which  had  been  contemplated  to  in- 
troduce his  first  verses  to  the  world,  in  association  with 
those  of  his  friend,  was  enkindled  anew.  While  cherish- 
ing the  hope  of  reunion  with  his  sister,  and  painfully 
wresting  his  leisure  hours  from  poetry  and  Coleridge  to 
amuse  the  dotage  of  his  father,  he  watched  over  his  own 
returning  sense  of  enjoyment  wuth  a  sort  of  holy  jealousy, 
apprehensive  lest  he  should  forget  too  soon  the  terrible 
visitation  of  Heaven.     At  this  time  he  thus  writes  : — 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"December  2cl,  1796. 

*'  I  have  delayed  writing  thus  long,  not  having  by  me 
my  copy  of  your  poems,  which  I  had  lent.  I  am  not  sat- 
isfied Avith  all  your  intended  omissions.     Why  omit  40, 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  57 

63,  84  ?  above  all,  let  me  protest  strongly  against  your  re- 
jecting the  '  Complaint  of  Ninathoma,'  86.  The  words, 
I  acknowledge,  are  Ossian's,  but  you  have  added  to  them 
the  '  music  of  Caril.'  If  a  vicarious  substitute  be  wanting, 
sacrifice  (and  'twill  be  a  piece  of  self  denial  too)^  the  'Epi- 
taph on  an  Infant,'  of  which  its  author  seems  so  proud, 
so  tenacious.  Or,  if  your  heart  be  set  on  perpetuating 
the  four-line  wonder,  I'll  tell  you  what  do ;  sell  the  copy- 
right of  it  at  once  to  a  country  statuary ;  commence  in 
this  manner  Death's  prime  poet-laureate  ;  and  let  your 
verses  be  adopted  in  every  village  round,  instead  of  those 
hitherto  famous  ones : — 

'Afflictions  sore  long  time  I  bore, 
Physicians  were  in  vain.'* 

"  I  have  seen  your  last  very  beautiful  poem  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine :  write  thus,  and  you  most  generally  have 
written  thus,  and  I  shall  never  quarrel  with  you  about 
simplicity.     With  regard  to  my  lines — 

'  Laugh  all  that  weep,'  kc. 

I  would  willingly  sacrifice  them  ;  but  my  portion  of  the 
volume  is  so  ridiculously  little,  that  in  honest  truth,  I  can't 
spare  them  :  as  things  are,  I  have  very  slight  pretensions 
to  participate  in  the  title-page.     White's  book  is  at  length 

•This  epitaph,  which,  notwithstanding  Lamb's  gentle  banter,  occupied  an 
entire  page  in  the  book,  is  curious — "  a  miracle  instead  of  wit" — for  it  is  a 
common ■2jlace  of  Coleridge,  who,  investing  ordinary  things  with  a  dreamy 
splendor,  or  weighing  them  down  with  accumulated  thought,  has  rareiy  if 
ever  written  a  stanza  so  smoothly  vapid —  so  devoid  of  merit  or  offence — (un^ 
less  it  bo  an  offence  to  make  fade  do  duty  as  a  verb  active  as  the  followino- .-. 

"Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow /utZe, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care  ; 
The  opening  bud  to  Heaven  convcy'd, 
And  bade  it  blossom  theie." 


58  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

reviewed  in  the  Monthly ;  was  it  your  doing,  or  Dyer's, 
to  whom  I  sent  him  ? — or,  rather,  do  you  not  write  in  the 
Critical  ? — for  I  observed,  in  an  article  of  this  month's,  a 
line  quoted  out  of  that  sonnet  on  Mrs.  Siddons, 

'With  eager  wondering,  and  perLurb'd  delight.' 

And  a  line  from  that  sonnet  would  not  readily  have  oc- 
curred to  a  stranger.  That  sonnet,  Coleridge,  brings 
afresh  to  my  mind  the  time  when  you  wrote  those  on 
Bowles,  Priestley,  Burk  ; — 'twas  two  Christmases  ago,  and 
in  that  nice  little  smoky  room  at  the  Salutation,  which  is 
ever  now  continually  f)resenting  itself  to  my  recollection, 
with  all  its  associated  train  of  pipes,  tobacco,  egg-hot, 
welsh-rabbits,  metaphysics,  and  poetry.  Are  we  never  to 
meet  again  ?  How  differently  I  am  circumstanced  now  ! 
I  have  never  met  with  any  one — never  shall  meet  with 
any  one —  who  could  or  can  compensate  me  for  the  loss 
of  your  society,  I  have  no  one  to  talk  all  these  matters 
about  to  ;  I  lack  friends,  I  lack  books  to  supply  their  ab- 
sence :  but  these  complaints  ill  become  me.  ^  Let  me  com- 
pare my  present  situation,  prospects,  and  state  of  mind,  Avith 
what  they  were  but  two  months  back — but  two  months  ! 
0  my  friend,  I  am  in  danger  of  forgetting  the  awful  les- 
sons then  presented  to  me  ;  remind  me  of  them  ;  remind  me 
of  my  duty  !  Talk  seriously  with  me  when  you  do  write  !  I 
thank  you,  from  my  heart  I  thank  you,  for  your  solicitude 
about  my  sister.  She  is  quite  well,  but  must  not,  I  fear,  come 
to  live  with  us  yet  a  good  while.  In  the  first  place,  because 
at  present,  it  would  hurt  her,  and  hurt  my  father,  for  them 
to  be  together  :  secondly,  from  a  regard  to  the  world's  good 
report,  for,  I  fear,  tongues  will  be  busy  whenever  that 
event  takes  place.  Some  have  hinted,  one  man  has  pressed 
it  on  me,  that  she  should  be  in  perpetual  confinement : 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  59 

what  she  hath  done  to  deserve,  or  the  necessity  of  such  an 
hardship,  I  see  not ;  do  you  ?  I  am  starving  at  the  India 
House, — near  seven  o'clock  without  my  dinner,  and  so  it 
has  been,  and  will  be,  almost  all  the  week.  I  get  home 
at  night  o'erwearied,  quite  faint,  and  then  to  cards  \\  ith 
my  father,  who  will  not  let  me  enjoy  a  meal  in  peace  ; 
but  I  must  conform  to  ray  situation,  and  I  hope  I  am,  for 
the  most  part,  not  thankful. 

"  I  am  got  home  at  last,  and,  after  repeated  games  at 
cribbage,  have  got  my  father's  leave  to  write  awhile  ;  with 
difficulty  got  it,  for  when  I  expostulated  about  playing 
any  more,  he  very  aptly  replied,  '  If  you  won't  play  with 
me,  you  might  as  well  not  come  home  at  all.'  The  argu- 
ment was  unanswerable,  and  I  set  to  afresh.  I  told  you 
I  do  not  approve  of  your  omissions,  neither  do  I  quite  co- 
incide with  you  in  your  arrangements.  I  have  not  time  to 
point  out  a  better,  and  I  suppose  some  self-associations  of 
your  own  have  determined  their  place  as  they  now  stand. 
Your  beginning,  indeed,  with  the  '  Joan  of  Arc'  lines  I  co- 
incide entirely  with.  I  love  a  splendid  outset — a  mag- 
nificent portico, — and  the  diapason  is  grand.  When  I 
read  the  'Religious  Musings,'  I  think  how  poor,  how  un- 
elevated,  unoriginal,  my  blank  verse  is — '  Laugh  all  that 
■weep,'  especially,  where  the  subject  demanded  a  grandeur 
of  conception ;  and  I  ask  what  business  they  have  among 
yours  ?  but  friendship  covereth  a  multitude  of  defects.  I 
want  some  loppings  made  in  the  '  Chatterton  ;'  it  wants 
but  a  little  to  make  it  rank  among  the  finest  irregular 
lyrics  I  ever  read.  Have  you  time  and  inclination  to  go 
to  work  upon  it — or  is  it  too  late — or  do  you  tliink  it 
needs  none  ?  Don't  reject  those  verses  in  one  of  your 
Watchmen, '  Dear  native  brook,'  &c. ;  nor  I  think  those  last 
lines  you  sent  me,  in  which  '  all  effortless'  is  without  doubt 


60  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

to  be  preferred  to  'inactive.'  If  I  am  writing  more  than 
ordinarily  dully,  'tis  that  I  am  stupefied  with  a  tooth-ache. 
Hang  it !  do  not  omit  48,  52,  and  53  :  what  you  do  retain, 
though,  call  sonnets,  for  heaven's  sake,  and  not  effusions. 
Spite  of  your  ingenious  anticipation  of  ridicule  in  your 
preface,  the  five  last  lines  of  50  are  too  good  to  be  lost, 
the  rest  is  not  much  worth.  My  tooth  becomes  importu- 
nate— I  must  finish.  Pray,  pray,  write  to  me ;  if  you 
knew  with  what  an  anxiety  of  joy  I  open  such  a  long 
packet  as  you  last  sent  me,  you  would  not  grudge  givin"- 
a  few  minutes  now  and  then  to  this  intercourse  (the  only 
intercourse  I  fear  we  two  shall  ever  have) — this  conversa- 
tion with  your  friend — such  I  boast  to  be  called.  God 
love  you  and  yours  !  Write  me  when  you  move,  lest  I  di- 
rect wrong.  Has  Sara  no  poems  to  publish  ?  Those  lines, 
129,  are  probably  too  light  for  the  volume  where  the  '  Re- 
ligious Musings'  are,  but  I  remember  some  very  beautiful 
lines,  addressed  by  somebody  at  Bristol  to  somebody  in 
London.     God  bless  you  once  more.      Thursday-night. 

"  C  Lamb." 

In  another  letter,  about  this  time  (December,  1796), 
Lamb  transmitted  to  Coleridge  two  Poems  for  the  vol- 
ume— one  a  copy  of  verses  "  To  a  Young  Lady  going  out 
to  India,"  which  were  not  inserted,  and  are  not  worthy  of 
preservation ;  the  other,  entitled,  "  The  Tomb  of  Douglas," 
which  was  inserted,  and  Avhich  he  chiefly  valued  as  a  me- 
morial of  his  impression  of  Mrs.  Siddons'  acting  in  Lady 
Randolph.     The  following  passage  closes  the  sheet. 

"  At  length  I  have  done  with  verse-making ;  not  that  I 
relish  other  people's  poetry  less ;  their's  comes  from  'em 
without  effort,  mine  is  the  difiScult  operation  of  a  brain 
scanty  of  ideas,  made  more   difiicult  by  disuse.     I  have 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  61 

been  reading  '  The  Task'  with  fresh  delight.     I  am  glad 
you  love  Cowper :  I  could  forgive  a  man  for  not  enjoying 
Milton,  but   I  would   not  call  that  man  my  friend  who 
should  be  ojffended  with  the  '  divine  chit-chat  of  Cowper.'  j 
Write  to  me.     God  love  you  and  yours.  C.  L." 

The  following,  of  10th  December,  1796,  illustrates 
Lamb's  almost  wayward  admiration  of  his  only  friend,  and 
a  feeling — how  temporary  with  him  I — of  vexation  with 
the  imperfect  sympathies  of  his  elder  brother. 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 
"  You  sent  me  some  very  sweet  lines  relative  to  Burns, 
but  it  was  at  a  time  when  in  my  highly  agitated  and  per- 
haps distorted  state  of  mind,  I  thought  it  a  duty  to  read 
'em  hastily  and  burn  'em.  I  burned  all  my  own  verses  ; 
all  my  book  of  extracts  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  and 
a  thousand  sources  :  I  burned  a  little  journal  of  my  foolish 
passion  which  I  had  a  long  time  kept — 

'Nothing  ere  they  past  away 
The  little  lines  ofyesterday.' 

I  almost  burned  all  your  letters, — I  did  as  bad,  I  lent  'em 
to  a  friend  to  keep  out  of  my  brother's  sight,  should  he 
come  and  make  inquisition  into  our  papers,  for  much  as  he 
dwelt  upon  your  conversation,  while  you  were  among  us, 
and  delighted  to  be  with  you,  it  has  been  his  fashion  ever 
since  to  depreciate  and  cry  you  doAvn, — you  were  the  cause 
of  my  madness — you  and  your  damned  foolish  sensibility 
and  melancholy — and  he  lamented  with  a  true  brotherly 
feeling  that  we  ever  met,  even  as  tlie  sober  citizen,  when  hig 
son  went  astray  upon  the  mountains  of  Parnassus,  is  said 
to  have  '  cursed  wit  and  Poetry  and  Pope.'  I  quote  wrong, 
6 


C2  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

but  no  matter.  These  letters  I  lent  to  a  friend  to  be  out 
of  the  way,  for  a  season,  but  I  have  claimed  them  in  vain, 
and  shall  not  cease  to  regret  their  loss.  Your  packets, 
posterior  to  the  date  of  my  misfortunes,  commencing  with 

\     that  valuable  consolatory  epistle,  are  every  day  accumu- 

~v^ating — they  are  sacred  things  with  me." 

The  following  long  letter,  bearing  date  on  the  outside, 
5th  January,  1797,  is  addressed  to  Mr.  Coleridge  at 
Stowey,  near  Bridgewater,  whither  he  had  removed  from 
Bristol,  to  enjoy  the  society  and  protection  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Poole.  The  original  is  a  cui-ious  specimen  of  clear 
compressed  penmanship  ;  being  contained  in  three  sides 
of  a  sheet  of  foolscap. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

'■^Sunday  morning. — You  cannot  surely  mean  to  de- 
grade the  Joan  of  Arc  into  a  pot-girl.  You  are  not 
going,  I  hope,  to  annex  to  that  most  splendid  ornament  of 
Southey's  poem  all  this  cock-and-a-bull  story  of  Joan,  the 
publican's  daughter  of  Neufchatel,  with  the  lamentable 
episode  of  a  waggoner,  his  wife,  and  six  children.  The 
texture  will  be  most  lamentably  disproportionate.  The  first 
forty  or  fifty  lines  of  these  addenda  are,  no  doubt,  in  their 
way,  admirable,  too ;  but  many  would  prefer  the  Joan  of 
Southey. 

'  On  mightiest  deeds  to  brood 
Of  shadowy  vastness,  such  as  made  my  heart 
Throb  fast;  anon  I  paused,  and  in  a  state 
Of  half  expectance  listened  to  the  wind  ;' 

'  The}'  wondered  at  me,  who  had  known  me  once 
A  cheerful,  careless  damsel ;' 

'  The  eye, 
That  of  the  circling  throng  and  of  the  visible  world 
Unseeing,  saw  the  shapes  of  holy  phantasy ;' 


LETTERS  TO    COLERIDGE.  63 

I  see  nothing  in  your  description  of  the   Maid  equal  to 
these.    There  is  a  fine  originality  certainly  in  those  lines — 

'  For  she  had  lived  in  this  bad  world 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs, 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead  ;' 

but  your  '  fierce  vivacity'  is  a  faint  copy  of  the  '  fierce 
and  terrible  benevolence'  of  Southey  ;  added  to  this,  that 
it  will  look  like  rivalship  in  you,  and  extort  a  comparison 
with  Southey, — I  think  to  your  disadvantage.  And  the 
lines,  considered  in  themselves  as  an  addition  to  what  you 
had  before  written,  (strains  of  a  far  higher  mood,)  are  but 
such  as  Madame  Fancy  loves  in  some  of  her  more  familiar 
moods,  at  such  times  as  she  has  met  Noll  Goldsmith,  and 
walked  and  talked  with  him,  calling  him  '  old  acquaint- 
ance.' Southey  certainly  has  no  pretensions  to  vie  withn 
you  in  the  sublime  of  poetry ;  but  he  tells  a  plain  tale  1 1 
better  than  you.  I  will  enumerate  some  woful  blemishes, 
some  of  'em  sad  deviations  from  that  simplicity  which  was 
your  aim.  '  Hailed  who  might  be  near'  (the  'canvass-cov- 
erture  moving,'  by  the  by,  is  laughable) ;  '  a  woman  and 
six  children'  (by  the  way, — why  not  nine  children  ?  It 
would  have  been  just  half  as  pathetic  again) :  '  statues  of 
sleep  they  seemed':  'frost-mangled  wretch':  'green 
putridity':  '  hailed  him  immortal'  (rather  ludicrous  again) : 
'voiced  a  sad  and  simple  tale'  (abominable  !)  'improven- 
dered':  '  such  his  tale':  '  Ah  !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what 
was  suffered'  (a  most  insufferable  line)',  'amazements  of 
affright':  'the  hot  sore  brain  attributes  its  own  hues  of 
ghastliness  and  torture'  (what  shocking  confusion  of  ideas) ! 
"  In  these  delineations  of  common  and  natural  feelings, 
in  the  familiar  walks  of  poetry,  you  seem  to  resemble  Mon- 
tauban  dancing  with  Roubigne's  tenants,  '  much  of  his  na- 
tive loftiness  remained  in  the  execution.' 


64  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

"  I  "was  reading  your  '  Religious  Musings'  the  other  day, 
and  sincerely  I  think  it  the  noblest  poem  in  the  language, 
next  after  the  '  Paradise  Lost,'  and  even  that  was  not  made 
the  vehicle  of  such  grand  truths.  '  There  is  one  mind,' 
&c.,  down  to  '  Almighty's  throne,'  are  without  a  rival  in 
the  whole  compass  of  my  poetical  reading. 

'Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze, 
Views  all  creation.' 

I  wish  I  could  have  Avritten  those  lines.  I  rejoice  that  I 
am  able  to  relish  them.  The  loftier  walks  of  Pindus  are 
your  proper  region.  There  you  have  no  compeer  in  modern 
times.  Leave  the  lowlands,  unenvied,  in  possession  of 
such  men  as  Cowper  and  Southey.  Thus  am  I  pouring 
balsam  into  the  wounds  I  may  have  been  inflicting  on  my 
poor  friend's  vanity. 

"In  your  notice  of  Southey 's  new  volume  you  omit  to 
mention  the  most  pleasing  of  all,  the  '  Miniature ' — 

'  There  were 
Who  formed  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  thee. 
Young  Robert !' 

'  Spirit  of  Spenser  ! — was  the  wanderer  wrong  ?' 

"  Fairfax  I  have  been  in  quest  of  a  long  time.  Johnson, 
in  his  '  Life  of  Waller,'  gives  a  most  delicious  specimen  of 
him,  and  adds,  in  the  true  manner  of  that  delicate  critic,  as 
well  as  amiable  man,  '  It  may  be  presumed  that  this  old 
version  will  not  be  much  read  after  the  elegant  translation 
of  my  friend,  Mr.  Hoole.'  I  endeavored — I  wished  to 
gain  some  idea  of  Tasso  from  this  Mr.  Hoole,  the  great 
boast  and  ornament  of  the  India  House,  but  soon  desisted. 
I  found  him  more  vapid  than  smallest  small  beer  '  sun-vin> 
egared.'     Your  '  Dream,'  down  to  that  exquisite  line- 

*  I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures,' 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  65 

is  a  most  happy  resemblance  of  Chaucer.  The  remainder 
is  so  so.  The  best  line,  I  think,  is,  '  He  belong'd,  I  be- 
lieve, to  the  "vvitch  Melancholy.'  By  the  way,  when  will 
our  volume  come  out  ?  Don't  delay  it  till  you  have  writ- 
ten a  new  Joan  of  Arc.  Send  what  letters  you  please  by 
me,  and  in  any  way  you  choose,  single  or  double.  The 
India  Company  is  better  adapted  to  answer  the  cost  than 
the  generality  of  my  friend's  correspondents — such  poor 
and  honest  dogs  as  John  Thelwell,  particularly.  I  can- 
not say  I  know  Colson,  at  least  intimately ;  I  once  supped 
with  him  and  Allen ;  I  think  his  manners  very  pleasing. 
I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  think  of  Lloyd,  for  he  may  by 
chance  come  to  see  this  letter,  and  that  thought  puts  a  re- 
straint on  me.  I  cannot  think  what  subject  would  suit 
your  epic  genius ;  some  philosophical  subject,  I  conjecture, 
in  Avhich  shall  be  blended  the  sublime  of  poetry  and  of 
science.  Your  proposed  '  Hymns'  will  be  a  fit  preparatory 
study  wherewith  '  to  discipline  your  young  noviciate  soul.' 
I  grow  dull ;  I'll  go  walk  myself  out  of  my  dulness. 

"  Sunday  night. — You  and  Sara  are  very  good  to  think 
so  kindly  and  so  favorably  of  poor  Mary ;  I  would  to  God 
all  did  so  too.  But  I  very  much  fear  she  must  not  think 
of  coming  home  in  my  father's  lifetime.  It  is  very  hard 
upon  her  ;  but  our  circumstances  are  peculiar,  and  we  must 
submit  to  them.  God  be  praised  she  is  so  well  as  she  is. 
She  bears  her  situation  as  one  who  has  no  right  to  com- 
plain. My  poor  old  aunt,  whom  you  have  seen,  the  kind- 
est, goodest  creature  to  me  when  I  Avas  at  school ;  who 
used  to  toddle  there  to  bring  me  good  things,  when  I,  school- 
boy like,  only  despised  her  for  it,  and  used  to  be  ashamed 
to  see  her  come  and  sit  herself  down  on  the  old  coal-hole 
steps  as  you  went  into  the  old  grammar-school,  and  open 
her  apron,  and  bring  out  her  bason,  with  some  nice  thing 
6* 


6Q  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

she  had  caused  to  be  saved  for  me  ;  the  good  old  creature 
is  now  lying  on  her  death-bed.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  on 
her  deplorable  state.  To  the  shock  she  received  on  that 
our  evil  day,  from  which  she  never  completely  recovered, 
I  impute  her  illness.  She  says,  poor  thing,  she  is  glad 
she  is  come  home  to  die  with  me.  I  was  always  her  favo- 
rite: 

'No  after  friendship  e'er  can  raise 
The  endearments  of  our  early  days  j 
Nor  e'er  the  heart  such  fondness  prove, 
As  when  it  first  began  to  love.' 

"  Lloyd  has  kindly  left  me,  for  a  keepsake,  '  John  Wool- 
man.'  You  have  read  it,  he  says,  and  like  it.  Will  you 
excuse  one  short  extract  ?  I  think  it  could  not  have  es- 
caped you. — '  Small  treasure  to  a  resigned  mind  is  suffi- 
cient. How  happy  is  it  to  be  content  with  a  little,  to  live 
in  humility,  and  feel  that  in  us,  Avhich  breathes  out  this 

language — x\bba  I  Father  !' 1  am  almost  ashamed  to 

patch  up  a  letter  in  this  miscellaneous  sort — but  I  please 
myself  in  the  thought,  that  anything  from  me  will  be  ac- 
ceptable to  you.  I  am  rather  impatient,  childishly  so,  to 
see  our  names  affixed  to  the  same  common  volume.  Send 
me  two,  when  it  does  come  out;  two  will  be  enough — or 
indeed  one — but  two  better.  I  have  a  dim  recollection 
that,  when  in  tovvn,  you  were  talking  of  the  Origin  of  Evil 
as  a  most  prolific  subject  for  a  long  poem  ; — why  not  adopt 
it,  Coleridge  ? — there  would  be  room  for  imagination.  Or 
the  description  (from  a  Vision  or  Dream,  suppose)  of  an 
Utopia  in  one  of  the  planets  (the  moon  for  instance.)  Or 
a  Five  Days'  Dream,  which  shall  illustrate,  in  sensible  im- 
agery, Hartley's  five  Motives  to  Conduct : — 1.  Sensation  : 
2.  Imagination  :  3.  Ambition ;  4.  Sympathy ;  5.  Theopathy ; 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  67 

— First.  Banquets,  music,  &c.,  eifeminacy, — and  their 
insufEciencj,  Second.  '  Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses,  where 
young  Adonis  oft  reposes;'  '  Fortunate  Isles  ;'  '  The  pagan 
Elysium,'  &c. ;  poetical  pictures;  antiquity  as  pleasin^  to 
the  fancy  ; — their  emptiness  ;  madness,  &c.  Third.  "War- 
riors, Poets,  some  famous  yet,  more  forgotten ;  their  fame 
or  oblivion  now  alike  indifferent ;  pride,  vanity,  &c.  Fourth. 
All  manner  of  pitiable  stories,  in  Spenser-like  verse  ;  love  ; 
friendship,  relationship,  &c.  Fifth.  Hermits  ;  Christ  and 
his  apostles  ;  martyrs  ;  heaven,  &c.  An  imagination  like 
yours,  from  these  scanty  hints,  m;iy  expand  into  a  thou- 
sand great  ideas,  if  indeed  you  at  all  comprehend  my  scheme, 
which  I  scarce  do  myself. 

"  Monday' morn. — '  A  London  letter — Ninepence  half- 
penny !'  Look  you,  master  poet,  I  have  remorse  as  well 
as  another  man,  and  ray  bowels  can  sound  upon  occasion. 
But  I  must  put  you  to  this  charge,  for  I  cannot  keep  back 
my  protest,  however  ineffectual,  against  the  annexing  your 
latter  lines  to  those  former — this  putting  of  new  wine  into 
old  bottles.  This  my  duty  done,  I  will  cease  from  writ- 
ing till  you  invent  some  more  reasonable  mode  of  convey- 
ance. Well  may  the  'ragged  followers  of  the  Nine  !'  set 
up  for  flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists  !  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  in  their  splendid  visions  of  Utopias  in  America, 
they  protest  against  the  admission  of  those  yclIoiv-com\)\Qx~ 
ioned,  co/?/jer-colored,  white ■\\.\qxq(\.  gentlemen,  who  never 
prove  themselves  their  friends  !  Don't  you  think  your 
verses  on  a  '  Young  Ass'  too  trivial  a  companion  for  the 
'Religious  Musings?' — 'scoundrel  monarch,'  alter  that ; 
and  the  '  Man  of  Ross'  is  scarce  admissible,  as  it  now 
stands,  curtailed  of  its  fairer  half:  reclaim  its  property 
from  the  '  Chatterton,'  which  it  does  but  cncumbei",  and 
it  will  be  a  rich  little  poem.     I  hope  you  expunge  great 


68  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

part  of  the  old  notes  in  the  new  edition  :  that,  m  particu- 
lar, most  barefaced,  unfounded,  impudent  assertion,  that 
Mr.  Rogers  is  indebted  for  his  story  to  Loch  Lomond,  a 
poem  by  Bruce  !  I  have  read  the  latter.  I  scarce  think 
you  have.  Scarce  anything  is  common  to  them  both.  The 
author  of  the  '  Pleasures  of  Memory'  was  somewhat  hurt, 
Dyer  says,  by  the  accusation  of  unoriginality.  He  never 
saw  the  poem.  I  long  to  read  your  poem  on  Burns — I 
retain  so  indistinct  a  memory  of  it.  In  what  shape  and 
how  does  it  come  into  public  ?  As  you  leave  off  writing 
poetry  till  you  finish  your  Hymns,  I  suppose  you  print, 
now,  all  you  have  got  by  you.  You  have  scarce  enough 
unprinted  to  make  a  second  volume  with  Lloyd  ?  Tell  me 
all  about  it.  What  is  become  of  Cowper  ?  Lloyd  told 
me  of  some  verses  on  his  mother.  If  you  have  them  by 
you,  pray  send  'em  me.  I  do  so  love  him  !  Never  mind 
their  merit.  May  be  /  may  like  'em,  as  your  taste  and 
mine  do  not  always  exactly  identify.     Yours 

"  C.  Lamb." 

Soon  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  death  released  the 
father  from  his  state  of  imbecility  and  the  son  from  his 
wearisome  duties.  With  his  life,  the  annuity  he  had  de- 
rived from  the  old  bencher  he  had  served  so  faithfully, 
ceased  ;  while  the  aunt  continued  to  linger  still  with  Lamb 
in  his  cheerless  lodging.  His  sister  still  remained  in  con- 
finement in  the  asylum  to  which  she  had  been  consigned 
on  her  mother's  death — perfectly  sensible  and  calm, — and 
he  was  passionately  desirous  of  obtaining  her  liberty. 
The  surviving  members  of  the  family,  especially  his  bro- 
ther John,  who  enjoyed  a  fair  income  in  the  South  Sea 
House,  opposed  her  discharge  ; — ivnd  painful  doubts  were 
suggested  by  the  authorities  of  the  parish,  where  the 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  69 

terrible    occurrence    happened,    whether   tliey  were    not 
bound  to  institute  proceedings,  which  must  have  placed  her 
for  life  at  the  disposition  of  the  Crown,  especially  as  no 
medical  assurance  could  be  given  against  the  probable  re- 
currence of  dangerous  frenzy.     But  Charles  came  to  her    i^ 
deliverance  ;  he  satisfied  all  the  parties  who  had  power  to    ' 
oppose  her  release,  by  his  solemn   engagement  that  he 
would  take  her  under  his  care  forJ.ife  ;  and  he  kept  his 
word.     Whether  any  communication  with  the  Home  Sec- 
retary occurred  before  her  release,  I  have  been  unable  to 
ascertain  ;  it  was  the  impression  of  Mr.  Lloyd,  from  whom 
my  own  knowledge  of  the  circumstances,  which  the  letters 
do  not  ascertain,  was  derived,  that  a  communication  took 
place,  on  which  a  similar  pledge  was  given ;  at  all  events, 
the  result  was,  that  she  left  the  asylum  and  took  up  her 
abode  for  life  with  her  brother  Charles.     For  her  sake,  at  s 
the  same  time,  he  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  love  and  mar- 
riage ;  and  with  an  income  of  scarcely  more  than  a  100/.  ^ 
a-year,  derived  from  his  clerkship,  aided  for  a  little  while  1 
by  the  old  aimt's  small  annuity,  set  out  on  the  journey       | 
of  life  at  twenty-tAvo  years  of  age,  cheerfully,  Avith  his  be- 
loved companion,  endeared  to  him  the  more  by  her  strange 
calamity,  and  the  constant  apprehension  of  a  recurrence 
of  the  malady  which  has  caused  it ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

LETTERS    TO  COLERIDGE  AND  MANNING   IN  LAMB's    FIRST   YEARS    OF    LIFE   WITH 
HIS  SISTER. 

[1797  to  1800.] 

The  anxieties  of  Lamb's  new  position  were  assuaged 
during  the  spring  of  1797,  bj  frequent  communications 
with  Coleridge  respecting  the  anticipated  volume,  and  by 
some  additions  to  his  own  share  in  its  pages.  He  was  also 
cheered  by  the  company  of  Lloyd,  who,  having  resided 
for  a  few  months  with  Coleridge,  at  Stowey,  came  to  Lon- 
don in  some  perplexity  as  to  his  future  course.  Of  this 
visit  Lamb  speaks  in  the  following  letter,  probably  written 
in  January.  It  contains  some  verses  expressive  of  his  de- 
light at  Lloyd's  visit,  which  although  afterwards  inserted 
in  the  volume,  are  so  well  fitted  to  their  frame-work  of 
prose,  and  so  indicative  of  the  feelings  of  the  writer  at 
this  crisis  of  his  life,  that  I  may  be  excused  for  presenting 
them  with  the  context. 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"1797 

"Dear  Col. — You  have  learned  by  this  time,  with  sur- 
prise, no  doubt,  that  Lloj-d  is  with  me  in  town.  Tlie  emo- 
tions I  felt  on  his  coming  so  unlooked-for,  are  not  ill  ex- 
pressed in  what  follows,  and  what,  if  you  do  not  object  to 
them  as  too  personal,  and  to  the  world  obscure,  or  other^ 

(70) 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  71 

wise  wanting  in  worth,  I  should  wish  to  make  a  part  of  our 
little  volume.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  that  volume  comes  out,  as 
it  necessarily  must  do,  unless  you  print  those  very  school- 
boy-ish  verses  T  sent  you  on  not  getting  leave  to  come  down 
to  Bristol  last  summer.  I  say  I  shall  be  sorry  that  I  have 
addressed  you  in  nothing  which  can  appear  in  our  joint  vol- 
ume ;  so  frequently,  so  habitually,  as  you  dwell  in  my 
thoughts,  'tis  some  wonder  those  thoughts  came  never  yet  in 
\   contact  with  a  poetical  mood.    But  you  dwell  in  my  heart  of 

tearts,  and  I  love  you  in  all  the  naked  honesty  of  prose.  God 
less  you,  and  all  your  little  domestic  circle — my  tenderest 
remembrances  to  your  beloved  Sara,  and  a  smile  and  a 
kiss  from  me  to  your  dear  dear  little  David  Hartley.  The 
verses  I  refer  to  above,  slightly  amended,  I  have  sent  (for- 
getting to  ask  your  leave,  tho'  indeed  I  gave  them  only 
your  initials),  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  where  they  may 
possibly  appear  next  month,  and  where  I  hope  to  recog- 
nise yc'-u-  poem  on  Burns. 

TO 

CHARLES  LLOYD,  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR. 

Alone,  obscure,  without  a  friend, 

A  cheerless,  solitary  thing. 
Why  seeks  my  Lloyd  the  stranger  out  ? 

What  offering  can  the  stranger  bring 

Of  social  scenes,  home-bred  delights. 

That  him  in  aught  compensate  may 
For  Stowey's  pleasant  winter  nights, 

For  loves  and  friendships  far  away. 

In  brief  oblivion  to  forego 

Friends,  such  as  thine,  so  justly  dear, 
And  bo  awhile  with  me  content 

To  stay,  a  kindly  loiterer,  here  ? 


72  LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE. 

For  this  a  gleam  of  random  joy 

Hath  flush'd  mv  unaccustom'd  cheek ; 
And,  ■with  an  o''^r-charged  bursting  heart, 

I  feel  the  thanks  I  cannot  speak. 

0  !  sweet  are  all  the  Muse's  lays, 

And  sweet  the  charm  of  matin  bird — 
'Twas  long  since  these  estranged  ears 

The  sweeter  voice  of  friend  had  heard. 

The  voice  hath  spoke  :  the  pleasant  sounds 

In  memory's  ear,  in  after  time 
Shall  live,  to  sometimes  rouse  a  tear, 

And  sometimes  prompt  an  honest  rhyme. 

For  when  the  transient  charm  is  fled, 

And  when  the  little  week  is  o'er. 
To  cheerless,  friendless  solitude 

When  I  return,  as  heretofore — 

Long,  long,  within  my  aching  heart 

The  grateful  sense  shall  cherish'd  bej 
I'll  think  less  meanly  of  myself. 

That  Lloyd  will  sometimes  think  on  me. 

■v^  "  0  Coleridge,  would  to  God  you  were  in  London  with 
MS,  or  we  two  at  Stowey  with  you  all.  Lloyd  takes  up  his 
abode  at  the  Bull  and  Mouth  Inn  ;  the  Cat  and  Salutation 
would  haye  had  a  charm  more  forcible  for  me.  0  nodes 
ecenceque  Deum  !  Anglice — "Welch  rabbits,  punch,  and 
poesy.  Should  you  be  induced  to  publish  those  very  school- 
boy-ish  verses,  print  'em  as  they  will  occur,  if  at  all,  in  the 
Monthly  Magazine  ;  yet  I  should  feel  ashamed  that  to  you 
I  wrote  nothing  better:  but  they  are  too  personal,  and  al- 
most trifling  and  obscure  withal.  Some  lines  of  mine  to 
Cowper  were  in  last  Monthly  Magazine  ;  they  have  not 
body  of  thought  enough  to  plead  for  the  retaining  of 
'em.     My  sister's  kind  love  to  you  all.  C  Lamb." 

It  would  seem,  from  the  following  fragment  of  a  letter 
of  7th  April,  1797,  that  Lamb,  at  first,  took  a  small  lodg- 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE,  73 

ing  for  his  sister  apart  from  his  own — but  soon  to  be  for 
life  united. 

TO  MR.  COLERIDGE. 

*'  By  the  way,  Lloycl  may  have  told  you  about  my  sister. 
I  told  him.  If  not,  I  have  taken  her  out  of  her  confinement, 
and  taken  a  room  for  her  at  Hackney,  and  spend  my  San- 
days,  holidays,  &c.  with  her.  She  boards  herself.  In 
one  little  half  year's  illness,  and  in  such  an  illness  of  such 
a  nature  and  of  such  consequences  !  to  get  her  out  into 
the  world  again,  with  a  prospect  of  her  never  being  so  ill 
again — this  is  to  be  ranked  not  among  the  common  blessings 
of  Providence." 

The  next  letter  to  Coleridge  begins  with  a  transcript  of 
Lamb's  Poem,  entitled  "  A  Vision  of  Repentance,"  which 
was  inserted  in  the  Addenda  to  the  volume,  and  is  pre- 
served among  his  collected  poems,  and  thus  proceeds : 


TO   MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  April  15th,  1797. 

"  The  above  you  will  please  to  print  immediately  before 
the  blank  verse  fragments.  Tell  me  if  you  like  it.  I 
fear  the  latter  half  is  unequal  to  the  former,  in  parts  of 
which  I  think  you  will  discover  a  delicacy  of  pencilling 
not  quite  un-Spenser-like.  The  latter  half  aims  at  the 
measure,  but  has  failed  to  attain  the  poetri/  of  Milton  in 
his  '  Comus,'  and  Fletcher  in  that  exquisite  thing  ycleped 
the  'Faithful  Shepherdess,' where  they  both  use  eight- 
syllable  lines.  But  this  latter  half  was  finished  in  great 
haste,  and  as  a  task,  not  from  that  impulse  which  affects 
the  name  of  inspiration. 
7 


74  LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE. 

'^  By  the  way,  I  have  lit  upon  Fairfax's  '  Godfrey  of 
Bullen,'  for  half-a-crown.     Rejoice  with  me. 

"Poor  dear  Lloyd  !  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday ; 
his  state  of  mind  is  truly  alarming.  He  has,  by  his  OAvn 
confession,  kept  a  letter  of  mine  unopened  three  weeks, 
afraid,  he  says,  to  open  it,  lest  I  should  speak  upbraid- 
ingly  to  him ;  and  yet  this  very  letter  of  mine  Avas  in  an- 
swer to  one.  Avherein  he  informed  me  that  an  alarmino^  ill- 
nes3  had  alone  prevented  him  from  writing.  You  will 
pray  with  me,  I  know,  for  his  recovery,  for  surely,  Cole- 
ridge, an  exquisiteness  of  feeling  like  this  must  border  on 
derangement.  But  I  love  him  more  and  more,  and  will 
not  give  up  the  hope  of  his  speedy  recovery,  as  he  tells  me 
he  is  under  Dr.  Darwin's  regimen.* 

"  God  bless  us  all,  and  shield  us  from  insanity,  which  is 
'the  sorest  malady  of  all.' 

"  My  kind  love  to  your  wife  and  child. 

"  C  Lamb. 

"Pray  write  now." 

As  summer  advanced.  Lamb  discerned  a  hope  of  com- 
pensation for  the  disappointment  of  last  year,  by  a  visit  to 
Coleridge,  and  thus  expressed  his  wishes. 

TO   MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  I  discern  a  possibility  of  my  paying  you  a  visit  next 
week.     May  I,  can  I,  shall  I,  come  as  soon  ?     Have  you 

*  Poor  Charles  Lloyd  !  These  apprehensions  were  sadly  realised.  Delu- 
sions of  the  most  melancholy  kind  thickened  over  his  latter  days — yet  left  hia 
admirable  intellect  free  for  the  finest  processes  of  severe  reasoning.  At  a 
time  when,  like  Cowper,  he  believed  himself  the  especial  subject  of  Divine 
wrath,  he  could  bear  his  part  in  the  most  subtle  disquisition  on  questions  of 
religion,  morals,  and  poetry,  with  the  nicest  accuracy  of  perception  and  the 
raost  exemplary  candor;  and,  after  an  argument  of  hours,  revert,  with  a  faint 
■mile,  to  his  own  despair! 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  75 

7'oom  foi'  me,  leisure  for  me,  and  are  jou  all  pretty  well? 
Tell  me  all  this  honestly — immediately.  And  by  what 
£?a?/-coach  could  I  come  soonest  and  nearest  to  Stowey  ? 
A  few  months  hence  may  suit  you  better ;  certainly  me, 
as  well.  If  so,  say  so.  I  long,  I  yearn,  with  all  the  long- 
ings of  a  child  do  I  desire  to  see  you,  to  come  among  you 
— to  see  the  young  philosopher,  to  thank  Sara  for  her  last 
year's  invitation  in  person — to  read  your  tragedy — to  read 
over  together  our  little  book — to  breathe  fresh  air — to 
revive  in  me  vivid  images  of  'Salutation  scenery.'  There 
is  a  sort  of  sacrilege,  in  my  letting  such  ideas  slip  out  of 

my  mind  and  memory.     Still  that  E, reniaineth — a 

thorn  in  the  side  of  Hope,  when  she  would  lean  towards 
Stowey.  Here  I  will  leave  off,  for  I  dislike  to  fill  up  this 
paper,  which  involves  a  question  so  connected  with  my 
heart  and  soul,  with  meaner  matter,  or  subjects  to  me  less 
interesting.  I  can  talk,  as  I  can  think,  nothing  else.  Tliurs- 
day.  C.  Lamb." 

The  visit  was  enjoyed ;  the  book  was  published ;  and 
Lamb  was  once  more  left  to  the  daily  labors  of  the  India 
House  and  the  unceasing  anxieties  of  his  home.  His  feel- 
ings, on  the  recurrence  of  the  season,  which  had,  last  year, 
been  darkened  by  his  terrible  calamity,  will  be  understood 
from  the  first  of  two  pieces  of  blank  verse,  which  fill  the 
two  first  sheets  of  a  letter  to  Coleridge,  written  under  an 
apprehension  of  some  neglect  on  the  part  of  his  friend, 
which  had  its  cause  in  no  estrangement  of  Coleridge's  af- 
fections, but  in  the  vicissitudes  of  the  imaginative  philoso- 
pher's fortune  and  the  constancy  of  his  day-dreamings. 


76  LETTERS   TO   COLERIiTgE. 

WRITTEN  A  TWELVEMONTH  AFTER  THE  EVENTS. 

[^Frida^  next,  Coleridge,  is  the  day  on  wJiich  my  mother  diedj\ 

Alas  !  how  am  I  chang'd  !  where  be  the  tears, 

The  sobs,  and  fore'd  suspensions  of  the  breath, 

And  all  the  dull  desertions  of  the  heart 

With  which  I  hung  o'er  my  dear  mother's  corse  ? 

AVhere  be  the  blest  subsidings  of  the  storm 

Within  :  the  sweet  resignedness  of  hope 

Drawn  heavenward,  and  strength  of  filial  love, 

In  which  I  bow'd  me  to  my  Father's  will? 

My  God  and  my  Redeemer,  keep  not  thou 

My  heart  in  brute  and  sensual  thanklessness 

Seal'd  up,  oblivious  ever  of  that  dear  grace, 

And  health  restor'd  to  my  long-loved  friend 

Long  lov'd  and  worthy  known  I     Thou  didst  not  keep 

Her  soul  in  death.     0  keep  not  now,  my  Lord, 

Thy  servants  in  far  worse — in  spiritual  death 

And  darkness — blacker  than  those  feared  shadows 

0'  the  valley  all  must  tread.     Lend  us  thy  balms. 

Thou  dear  Physician  of  the  sin-sick  soul. 

And  heal  our  cleansed  bosoms  of  the  wounds 

With  which  the  world  hath  pierc'd  us  thro'  and  thro'! 

Give  us  new  flesh,  new  birth;  Elect  of  heaven 

May  we  become,  in  thine  election  sure 

Contain'd,  and  to  one  purpose  steadfast  drawn — 

Our  souls'  salvation. 

Thou  and  I,  dear  friend, 
With  filial  recognition  sweet,  shall  know 
One  day  the  face  of  our  dear  mother  in  heaven. 
And  her  remember'd  looks  of  love  shall  greet 
With  answering  looks  of  love,  her  placid  smile* 
Meet  with  a  smile  as  placid,  and  her  hand 
With  drops  of  fondness  wet,  nor  fear  repulse.* 

Be  witness  for  me,  Lord,  I  do  not  ask 
Those  days  of  vanity  to  return  again, 
(Nor  fitting  me  to  ask,  nor  thee  to  give;. 
Vain  loves,  and  "wanderings  with  a  fair-hair'd  maid  " 

*  'Note  in  the  margin  of  MS.]    "  This  ia  almost  literal  from  a  letter  of  my  sister 
loss  (ban  a  year  ago." 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  77 

(Child  of  the  dust  as  I  am)  who  so  long 

My  foolish  heart  steep'd  in  idolatry, 

And  creature-loves.     Forgive  it,  0  my  Maker ! 

If  in  a  mood  of  grief,  I  sin  almost 

In  sometimes  brooding  on  the  days  long  past, 

(And  from  the  grave  of  time  wishing  them  back,) 

Days  of  a  mother's  fondness  to  her  child — 

Her  little  one  !     Oh,  where  be  now  those  sports 

And  infant  play-games  ?     AVhere  the  joyous  troops 

Of  children,  and  the  haunts  I  did  so  love  ? 

0  my  companions  !     0  yJloved  names 

Of  friend,  or  playmate  dear,  gone  are  ye  now. 
Gone  divers  ways  ;  to  honor  and  credit  some  ; 
And  some,  I  fear,  to  ignominy  and  shame!  * 

1  only  am  left,  with  unavailing  grief 

One  parent  dead  to  mourn,  and  see  one  live 
Of  all  life's  joys  bereft,  and  desolate: 
Am  left,  with  a  few  friends,  and  one  above 
The  rest,  found  faithful  in  a  length  of  years, 
Contented  as  I  may,  to  bear  me  on, 
T'  the  not  unpeaceful  evening  of  a  day 
Made  black  by  morning  storms. 

"  The  following  I  wrote  when  I  had  returned  from  C. 
Lloyd,  leaving  him  behind  at  Burton,  with  Southey.  To 
understand  some  of  it,  you  must  remember  that  at  that 
time  he  was  very  much  perplexed  in  mind. 

A  stranger,  and  alone,  I  past  those  scenes 
We  past  so  late  together;  and  my  heart 
Felt  something  like  desertion,  as  I  look'd 
Around  me,  and  the  pleasant  voice  of  friend 
Was  absent,  and  the  cordial  look  was  there 
No  more,  to  smile  on  me.     I  thought  on  Lloyd — 
All  he  had  been  to  me  !     And  now  I  go 
Again  to  mingle  with  a  world  impure ; 
W^ith  men  who  make  a  mock  of  holy  things. 
Mistaken,  and  of  man's  best  hope  think  scorn. 
The  world  does  much  to  warp  the  heart  of  man  ; 
And  I  may  sometimes  join  its  idiot  laugh  : 
Of  this  I  now  complain  not.     Deal  with  me, 

•  [Note  in  the  margin  of  MS.]    "  Alluding  to  some  of  my  old  play-fellows  being,  litei* 
ally,  '  on  the  town,'  and  some  otherwise  wretched." 

7* 


78  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE 

Omniscient  Father,  as  thnii  judgest  best. 

And  in  thy  season  soften  thou  my  heart. 

I  pray  not  for  myself:  I  pray  for  him 

AVhose  soul  is  sore  perplexed.    Shine  thou  on  him, 

Father  of  lights  !  and  in  the  difBcult  paths 

Make  plain  his  way  before  him :  his  own  thoughts 

May  he  not  think — his  own  ends  not  pursue — 

So  shall  he  best  perform  thy  will  on  earth. 

Greatest  and  Best,  Thy  will  be  ever  ours  ! 

"  The  former  of  these  poems  I  wrote  with  unusual  ce- 
hirity  t'other  morning  at  office.  I  expect  you  to  like  it 
better  than  anything  of  mine  ;  Lloyd  does,  and  I  do  my- 
self. 

"You  use  Lloyd  very  ill,  never  writing  to  him.  I  tell 
you  again  that  his  is  not  a  mind  with  which  you  should 
play  tricks.     He  deserves  more  tenderness  from  you. 

"  For  myself,  I  must  spoil  a  little  passage  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  to  adapt  it  to  my  feelings  :- 

'  I  am  prouder 
That  I  was  once  your  friend,  tho'  now  forgot, 
Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me.' 

If  you  don't  write  to  me  now,  as  I  told  Lloyd,  I  shall  get 
angry,  and  call  you  hard  names — Manchineel  and  I  don't 
know  what  else.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  my  great-coat. 
The  snow  and  the  rain  season  is  at  hand,  and  I  have  but 
a  wretched  old  coat,  once  my  father's,  to  keep  'em  off,  and 
that  is  transitory. 

'When  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  ways  grow  foul  and  blood  gets  cold,' 

I  shall  remember  wher.e  I  left  my  coat.  Meet  emblem 
Avilt  thou  be,  old  Winter,  of  a  friend's  neglect — cold,  cold, 
cold !  C.  Lamb." 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  79 

The  following  lines,  which  Lamb  transmitted  to  his  new 
friend,  Southey,  bespeak  the  remarkable  serenity  with 
which,  when  the  first  shock  was  over  and  the  duties  of  life- 
lofig  love  arranged,  Lamb  was  able  to  contemplate  the  vic- 
tim of  his  sister's  frenzy  :* 

V 

Thou  should'st  have  longer  lived,  and  to  the  grave 
Have  peacefully  gone  down  in  full  old  age ; 
Thy  children  would  have  tended  thy  gray  hairs. 
We  might  have  sat,  as  we  have  often  done, 
By  our  fire-side,  and  talk'd  whole  nights  away, 
Old  time,  old  friends,  and  old  events  recalling, 
With  many  a  circumstance  of  trivial  note. 
To  memory  dear,  and  of  importance  grown. 
How  shall  we  tell  them  in  a  stranger's  ear  ! 

A  wayward  son  ofttimes  was  I  to  thee — 

And  yet,  in  all  our  little  bickerings. 

Domestic  jars,  there  was  I  know  not  what 

Of  tender  feeling  that  were  ill  exehang'd 

For  this  world's  chilling  friendships,  and  their  smiles 

Familiar,  whom  the  heart  calls  stranger  still. 

A  heavy  lot  hath  he,  most  wretched  man, 

Who  lives  the  last  of  all  his  family  ! 

He  looks  around  him,  and  his  eye  discerns 

The  face  of  the  stranger;  and  his  heart  is  sick. 

Man  of  the  world,  what  can'st  thou  do  for  him  7 

Wealth  is  a  burthen  which  he  could  not  bear; 

Mirth  a  strange  crime,  the  which  he  dares  not  act; 

And  generous  wines  no  cordial  to  his  soul. 

For  wounds  like  his,  Christ  is  the  only  cure. 

Go !  preach  thou  to  him  of  a  world  to  come. 

Where  friends  shall  meet  and  know  each  other's  face! 

Say  less  than  this,  and  say  it  to  the  winds. 

*  These  lines  are  now  first  introduced  in  this  Edition; — becoming  ktiown 
to  the  Editor  by  their  publication  in  the  first  volume  of  "  Southey's  Life  ami 
Correspondence,"  p.  325,  where  they  appear  in  a  letter  from  Southey  to  Mr. 
AVynn.  The  Biographer  courteously  adds,  that  they  would  have  been  sent  to 
the  Editor,  but  that  tbey  were  not  observed  till  after  the  publication  of  the' 
First  Edition  of  these  Memorials. 


80  LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE. 

An  addition  to  Lamb's  household-cares  is  thus  mentioned 
m  a  letter 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  December  10th,  1797. 
"In  truth,  Coleridge,  I  am  perplexed,  and  at  times  al- 
most cast  down.  I  am  beset  with  perplexities.  The  old 
hag  of  a  wealthy  relation,  who  took  my  aunt  off  our  hands 
in  the  beginning  of  trouble,  has  found  out  that  she  is  '  in- 
dolent and  mulish,'  I  quote  her  own  words,  and  that  her 
attachment  to  us  is  so  strong  that  she  can  never  be  happy 
apart.  The  lady,  with  delicate  irony,  remarks,  that  if  I 
am  not  an  hypocrite,  I  shall  rejoice  to  receive  her  again  ; 
and  that  it  will  be  a  means  of  making  me  more  fond  of 
home  to  have  so  dear  a  friend  to  come  home  to  !  The  fact 
is,  she  is  jealous  of  my  aunt's  bestowing  any  kind  recollec- 
tions on  us,  while  she  enjoys  the  patronage  of  her  roof. 
She  says  she  finds  it  inconsistent  with  her  own  'ease  and 
tranquillity,'  to  keep  her  any  longer  ;  and,  in  fine,  summons 
me  to  fetch  her  home.  Now,  much  as  I  should  rejoice  to 
transplant  the  poor  old  creature  from  the  chilling  air  of 
such  patronage,  yet  I  know  how  straitened  we  are  already, 
how  unable  already  to  answer  any  demand  which  sickness 
or  any  extraordinary  expense  may  make.  I  know  this, 
and  all  unused  as  I  am  to  struggle  Avith  perplexities,  I  am 
somewhat  nonplussed,  to  say  no  worse.  This  prevents  me 
from  a  thorough  relish  of  what  Lloyd's  kindness  and  your's 
have  furnished  me  with.  I  thank  you  though  from  my 
heart,  and  feel  myself  not  quite  alone  in  the  earth." 

In  1798,  Coleridge  seemed  to  attain  a  settled  home  by 
accepting  an  invitation  to  become  the  minister  of  a  Unita- 
rian  congregation  at  Shrewsbury ;  a  hope  of  short  dura- 
tion.    The  following  letter  was  addressed  by  Lamb  to  him 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  81 

at  this  time  as  "  S.  T.  Coleridge" — as  if  the  Mr.  "were 
dropped  and  the  "Reverend''  not  quite  adopted — "at  the 
Reverend  A.  Rowe's,  Shrewsbury,  Shropshire."  The 
tables  are  turned  here  ; — Lamb,  instead  of  accusing  Cole- 
ridge of  neglect,  takes  the  charge  to  himself,  in  deep  humil- 
ity of  spirit,  and  regards  the  effect  of  Miss  Lamb's  renewed 
illness  on  his  mind  as  inducing  indifference,  with  an 
affecting   self-jealousy. 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"  January  28th,  1798. 

-^  "  You  have  writ  me  many  kind  letters,  and  I  have  an- 
swered none  of  them.  I  don't  deserve  your  attentions. 
An  unnatural  indifference  has  been  creeping  on  me  since 
my  last  misfortunes,  or  I  should  have  seized  the  first  open- 
ing of  a  correspondence  with  you^  To  you  I  owe  much, 
under  God.  In  my  brief  acquaintance  with  you  in  Lon- 
don, your  conversations  won  me  to  the  better  cause,  and 
rescued  me  from  the  polluting  spirit  of  the  world.  I 
might  have  been  a  worthless  character  without  you  ;  as  it 
is,  I  do  possess  a  certain  improvable  portion  of  devotional 
feelings,  tho'  when  I  view  m^^sclf  in  the  light  of  divine 
truth,  and  not  according  to  the  common  measures  of 
human  judgment,  I  am  altogether  corrupt  and  sinful. 
This  is  no  cant.     I  am  very  sincere. 

"  These  last  afflictions,  Coleridge,  have  failed  to  soften 
and  bend  my  will.  They  found  me  unprepared.  My 
former  calamities  produced  in  me  a  spirit  of  humility  and 
a  spirit  of  prayer.  I  thought  they  had  sufficiently  disci- 
plined me,  but  the  event  ought  to  humble  me ;  if  God'g 
judgments  now  fail  to  take  away  from  me  the  heart 
of  stone,  what  more  grievous  trials  ought  I  not  to  ex- 
pect ?  I  have  been  very  querulous,  impatient  under 
the    rod — full  of   little  jealousies    and   heart   burnings 


82  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

I  had  well  nigh  quarrelled  with  Charles  Lloyd— and 
for  no  other  reason,  I  believe,  than  that  the  good 
creature  did  all  he  could  to  make  me  happy.  The 
truth  is,  I  thought  he  tried  to  force  my  mind  from  its 
natural  and  proper  bent ;  he  continually  wished  me  to  be 
from  home,  he  was  drawing  mQ  from  the  consideration  of 
my  poor  dear  Mary's  situation,  rather  than  assisting  me 
tc  gain  a  proper  view  of  it  with  religious  consolations.  I 
wanted  to  be  left  to  the  tendency  of  my  own  mind,  in  a 
solitary  state,  which,  in  times  past,  I  knew  had  led  to 
quietness  and  a  patient  bearing  of  the  yoke.  He  was 
hurt  that  I  was  not  more  constantly  with  him,  but  he  was 
living  with  White,  a  man  to  whom  I  had  never  been  ac- 
customed to  impart  my  dearest  feelings,  tho'  from  long 
habits  of  friendliness,  and  many  a  social  and  good  quality, 
I  loved  him  very  much.  I  met  company  there  sometimes 
— indiscriminate  company.  Any  society  almost,  when  I 
am  in  affliction,  is  sorely  painful  to  me.  I  seem  to  breathe 
more  freely,  to  think  more  collectedly,  to  feel  more  pro- 
perly and  calmly,  when  alone.  All  these  things  the  good 
creatm-e  did  with  the  kindest  intentions  in  the  world,  but 
they  produced  in  me  nothing  but  soreness  and  discontent. 
I  became,  as  he  complained,  'jaundiced'  towards  him.  .  . 
but  he  has  forgiven  me — and  his  smile,  I  hope,  will  draw 
all  such  humors  from  me.  I  am  recovering,  God  be  praised 
for  it,  a  healthiness  of  mind,  something  like  calmness — 
but  I  want  more  religion — I  am  jealous  of  human  helps 
and  leaning-places.  I  rejoice  in  your  good  fortunes. 
May  God  at  the  last  settle  you ! — You  have  had  many 
and  painful  trials ;  humanly  speaking  they  are  going  to 
end  ;  but  we  should  rather  pray  that  discipline  may  attend 

us  thro'  the  whole  of  our  lives A  careless  and  a  dis- 

eoiute  spirit  has  advanced  upon  me  with  large  strides-— 


LETTERS  TO    COLERIDGE.  83 

pray  God  that  my  present  afflictions  may  be  sanctified  to 
me  !  Mary  is  recovering ;  but  I  see  no  opening  yet  of  a 
situation  for  her ;  your  invitation  went  to  my  very  heart, 
but  you  have  a  power  of  exciting  interest,  of  leading  all 
hearts  captive,  too  forcible  to  admit  of  Mary's  being  with 
you.  I  consider  her  as  perpetually  on  the  brink  of  mad- 
ness. I  think  you  would  almost  make  her  dance  within 
an  ir.ch  of  the  precipice  ;  she  must  be  with  duller  fancies, 
and  cooler  intellects.  I  know  a  young  man  of  this  des- 
cription, who  has  suited  her  these  twenty  years,  and  may 
live  to  do  so  still,  if  we  are  one  day  restored  to  each  other. 
In  answer  to  your  suggestions  of  occupation  for  me,  I 
must    say  that    I   do    not    think  my  capacity  altogether 

suited  for   disquisitions  of  that  kind I  have  read 

little,  I  have  a  very  weak  memory,  and  retain  little  of 
what  I  read  ;  am  unused  to  compositions  in  which  any 
methodising  is  required  ;  but  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the 
hint,  and  shall  receive  it  as  far  as  I  am  able,  that  is,  en- 
deavor to  engage  my  mind  in  some  constant  and  innocent 
pursuit.     I  know  my  capacities  better  than  you  do. 

"Accept  my  kindest  love,  and  believe  me  yours,  as 
ever.  C.  L". 

At  this  time,  the  only  literary  man  whom  Lamb  knew 
in  London  was  George  Dyer,  who  had  been  noted  as  an 
accomplished  scholar,  in  Lamb's  early  childhood,  at 
Christ's  Hospital.  For  him  Lamb  cherished  all  the  es- 
teem that  his  guileless  simplicity  of  character  and  gentle- 
ness of  nature  could  inspire ;  in  these  qualities  the  friends 
were  akin  ;  but  no  two  men  could  be  more  opposite  than 
they  were  to  each  other,  in  intellectual  qualifications  and 
tastes — Lamb,  in  all  things  original,  and  rejoicing  in  the 
quaint,  the  strange,  the  extravagant ;  Dyer,  the  quintes 


84  LETTER    TO    SOUTHEY. 

sence  of  learned  commonplace  ;  Lamb  -wildlj  catching  tbd 
most  evanescent  spirit  of  wit  and  poetry  ;  Dyer,  the  woc- 
dering  disciple  of  their  established  forms.  Dyer  officiated 
as  a  revering  High  Priest  at  the  Altar  of  the  Muses — such 
as  they  were  in  the  staid,  antiquated  trim  of  the  closing 
years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  before  they  formed  sen- 
timental attachments  in  Germany,  or  flirted  with  revolu- 
tionary France,  or  renewed  their  youth  by  drinking  the 
Spirit  of  the  Lakes.  Lamb  esteemed  and  loved  him  so 
well,  that  he  felt  himself  entitled  to  make  sport  with  his 
peculiarities ;  but  it  was  as  Fielding  might  sport  with  his 
own  idea  of  Parson  Adams ;  or  Goldsmith  with  his  Dr. 
Primrose.  The  following  passage  occurs  in  a  letter  of  28th 
November,  1798,  addressed — 

TO  MR.  SOUTHEY. 

"I  showed  my  'Witch,'  and  'Dying  Lover,'  to  Dyer 
last  night,  but  George  could  not  comprehend  how  that 
could  be  poetry  which  did  not  go  upon  ten  feet,  as  George 
and  his  predecessors  had  taught  it  to  do  ;  so  George  read 
me  some  lectures  on  the  distinguishing  qualities  of  the  Ode, 
the  Epigram,  and  the  Epic,  and  went  home  to  illustrate 
his  doctrine,  by  correcting  a  proof  sheet  of  his  own  Lyrics. 
George  writes  odes  where  the  rhymes,  like  fashionable  man 
and  wife,  keep  a  comfortable  distance  of  six  or  eight  lines 
apart,  and  calls  that  '  observing  the  laws  of  verse.' 
George  tells  you,  before  he  recites,  that  you  must  listen 
with  great  attention,  or  you'll  miss  the  rhymes.  I  did  so, 
and  found  them  pretty  exact.  George,  speaking  of  the 
dead  Ossian,  cxclairaeth,  '  Dark  are  the  poet's  eyes.'  I 
humbly  represented  to  him  that  his  own  eyes  were  dark, 
and  many  a  living  bard's  besides,  and  recommended 
'  Clos'd  are  the  poet's  eyes.'     But  that  would  not  do.     I 


LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE.  85 

found  there  was  an  antithesis  between  the  darkness  of  his 
eyes  and  the  splendor  of  his  genius  ;  and  I  acquiesced." 

The  following  passage  on  the  same  subject  occurs  in  a 
letter  about  the  same  time,  addressed 

TO    MR.   COLERIDGE. 

"  Now  I  am  on  the  subject  of  poetry,  I  must  announce 
to  you,  who,  doubtless,  in  your  remote  part  of  the  island, 
have  not  heard  tidings  of  so  great  a  blessing,  that  George 
Dyer  hath  prepared  two  ponderous  volumes  full  of  poetry 
and  criticism.  They  impend  over  the  town,  and  are 
threatened  to  fall  in  the  winter.  Tlie  first  volume  contains 
every  sort  of  poetry,  except  personal  satire,  which  George, 
in  his  truly  original  prospectus,  renounceth  for  ever,  whim- 
sically foisting  the  intention  in  between  the  price  of  his 
book  and  the  proposed  number  of  subscribers.  (If  I  can, 
I  will  get  you  a  copy  of  his  handbill.)  He  has  tried  his 
vein  in  every  species  besides — the  Spenserian,  Thomso- 
nian.  Masonic  and  Akensidish  more  especially.  The  second 
volume  is  all  criticism  ;  wherein  he  demonstrates  to  the  en- 
tire satisfaction  of  the  literary  world,  in  a  way  that  must 
silence  all  reply  for  ever,  that  the  Pastoral  was  introduced 
by  Theocritus  and  polished  by  Virgil  and  Pope — that 
Gray  and  Mason  (who  always  hunt  in  couples  in  George's 
brain)  have  a  good  deal  of  poetical  fire  and  true  lyric 
genius — that  Cowley  was  ruined  by  excess  of  wit  (a  warn- 
ing to  all  moderns) — that  Charles  Lloyd,  Charles  Lamb,- 
and  William  Wordsworth,  in  later  days,  have  struck  the 
true  chords  of  poesy.  0  George,  George !  with  a  head 
uniformly  Avrong,  and  a  heart  uniformly  right,  that  I  had 
power  and  might  equal  to  my  wishes :  then  would  I  cal) 


86  LETTERS   TO   COLERIDUE. 

the  gentry  of  thy  native  island,  and  they  should  come  in 
troops,  flocking  at  the  sound  of  thy  prospectus-trumpet, 
and  crowding  who  shall  be  first  to  stand  in  thy  list  of  sub- 
scribers !  I  can  only  put  twelve  sliillings  into  thy  pocket 
(which,  I  will  answer  for  them,  will  not  stick  there  long), 
out  of  a  pocket  almost  as  bare  as  thine.  Is  it  not  a  pity 
so  much  fine  writing  should  be  erased  ?  But,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  began  to  scent  that  I  was  getting  into  that  sort 
of  style  which  Longinus  and  Dionysius  Halicarnassus 
fitly  call  '  the  affected.'  " 

Lamb's  apprehensions  of  the  recurrence  of  his  sister's 
malady  were  soon  realised.  An  old  maid-servant  wdio  as- 
sisted her  in  the  lodging  became  ill ;  Miss  Lamb  inces- 
santly watched  the  death-bed ;  and  just  as  the  poor  crea- 
ture died,  was  again  seized  with  madness.  Lamb  placed 
her  under  medical  care ;  and,  left  alone,  wrote  the  foUow- 
ins  short  and  miserable  letter  : — 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"May  12th,  1800. 

"  My  dear  Coleridge. — I  don't  know  why  I  write,  ex- 
cept from  the  propensity  misery  has  to  tell  her  griefs. 
Hetty  died  on  Friday  night,  about  eleven  o'clock,  after 
eight  days'  illness  :  Mary,  in  consequence  of  fatigue  and 
anxiety,  is  fallen  ill  again,  and  I  was  obliged  to  remove 
her  yesterday.  I  am  left  alone  in  a  house  with  nothing 
but  Hetty's  dead  body  to  keep  me  company.  To-morrow 
I  bury  her,  and  then  I  shall  be  quite  alone,  with  notidng 
but  a  cat,  to  remind  me  that  the  house  has  been  full  of 
living  beings  like  myself.  My  heart  is  quite  sunk,  and  I 
don't  know  where  to  look  for  relief.  Mary  will  get  better 
again,  but  her  constantly  being  liable  to  such  relapses  is 


LETTER   TO  MANNING.  87 

dreadful ;  nor  is  it  the  least  of  our  evils  that  her  case  and 
all  our  story  is  so  -vvell  known  around  us.  We  are  in  a 
manner  marked.  Excuse  my  troubling  you,  but  I  have 
nobody  by  me  to  speak  to  me.  I  slept  out  last  night,  not 
being  able  to  endure  the  change  and  the  stillness.  But  I 
did  not  sleep  well,  and  I  must  come  back  to  my  own  bed. 
I  am  going  to  try  and  get  a  friend  to  come  and  be  with 
me  to-morrow.  I  am  completely  shipwrecked.  My  head 
is  quite  bad.  I  almost  wish  that  Mary  were  dead.  God 
bless  you.     Love  to  Sara  and  Hartley. — Mondaij. 

C.  Lamb." 

The  prospect  of  obtaining  a  residence  more  suited  to 
the  peculiar  exigencies  of  his  situation  than  that  which  he 
then  occupied  at  Pentonville,  gave  Lamb  comfort,  which 
he  expressed  in  the  following  short  letter : 

TO  MR.  MANNING. 

"1800. 

"  Dear  Manning. — I  feel  myself  unable  to  thank  you 
sufiSciently  for  your  kind  letter.  It  was  doubly  acceptable 
to  me,  both  for  the  choice  poetry  and  the  kind  honest 
prose  which  it  contained.  It  was  just  such  a  letter  as  I 
should  have  expected  from  Manning. 

"  I  am  in  much  better  spirits  than  when  I  wrote  last. 
I  have  had  a  very  eligible  offer  to  lodge  with  a  friend  in 
town.  He  will  have  rooms  to  let  at  midsummer,  by  which 
time  I  hope  my  sister  will  be  well  enough  to  join  me.  It 
is  a  great  object  to  mo  to  live  in  town,  where  we  shall  bo 
much  more  private,  and  to  quit  a  house  and  a  neighbor- 
hood, where  poor  Mary's  disorder,  so  frequently  recurring, 
has  made  us  a  sort  of  marked  people.  We  can  be  no- 
where private  except  in  the  midst  of  London.     We  shall 


88  LETTER   TO    COLERIDaE. 

be  in  a  family  where  we  visit  very  frequently  ;  only  my 
landlord  and  I  have  not  yet  come  to  a  conclusion.  He  has  a 
partner  to  consult.  I  am  still  on  the  tremble,  for  I  do  not 
know  where  we  could  go  into  lodgings  that  would  not  be,  in 
many  respects,  highly  exceptionable.  Only  God  send 
Mary  well  again,  and  I  hope  all  will  be  well  !  The  pros- 
pect, such  as  it  is,  has  made  me  quite  happy.  I  have 
just  time  to  tell  you  of  it,  as  I  know  it  will  give  you  plea- 
sure.    Farewell.  C.  Lamb." 

This  hope  was  accomplished,  as  appears  from  the  fol- 
lowing letter  : — 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"1800. 

"  Dear  Coleridge. — Soon  after  I  wrote  to  you  last,  an 
offer  was  made  me  by  Gutch  (you  must  remember  him,  at 
Christ's, — you  saw  him,  slightly,  one  day  with  Thomson 
at  our  house) — to  come  and  lodge  with  him,  at  his  house 
in  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery-lane.  This  was  a 
very  comfortable  offer  to  mc,  the  rooms  being  at  a  reason- 
able rent,  and  including  the  use  of  an  old  servant,  besides 
being  infinitely  preferable  to  ordinary  lodgings  in  our  case^ 
as  you  must  perceive.  As  Gutch  know  all  our  story  and 
the  perpetual  liability  to  a  recurrence  in  my  sister's  dis- 
order, probably  to  the  end  of  her  life,  I  certainly  think 
the  offer  very  generous  and  very  friendly.  I  have  got 
three  rooms  (including  servant)  under  oAl.  a  year.  Here 
I  soon  found  myself  at  home  ;  and  here,  in  six  weeks  after, 
Mary  Avas  well  enough  to  join  me.  So  wc  are  once  more 
settled.  I  am  afraid  we  are  not  placed  out  of  the  reach 
of  future  interruptions.  But  I  am  determined  to  take 
what  snatches  of  pleasure  we  can  between  the  acts  of  our 
distressful  drama I  have   passed  two  days  at  Ox- 


LETTER    TO    COLERIDQE.  89 

ford,  on  a  visit  whicli  I  have  long  put  off,  to  Gutch's 
family.  The  sight  of  the  Bodleian  Library,  and,  above 
all,  a  fine  bust  of  Bishop  Taylor,  at  All  Souls',  were  par- 
ticularly gratifying  to  me  ;  unluckily,  it  was  not  a  family 
where  I  could  take  Mary  with  me,  and  I  am  afraid  there 
is  something  of  dishonesty  in  any  pleasures  I  take  with- 
out her.  She  never  goes  anywhere.  I  do  not  know  what 
I  can  add  to  this  letter.  I  hope  you  are  better  by  this 
time;  and  I-  desire  to  be  affectionately  remembered  to 
Sara  and  Hartley. 

"  I  expected  before  this  to  have  had  tidings  of  another 
httle  philosopher.  Lloyd's  wife  is  on  the  point  of  favor- 
ing the  world. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  new  edition  of  Burns  ?  his  posthu- 
mous works  and  letters  ?  I  have  only  been  able  to  pro- 
cure the  first  volume,  which  contains  his  life — very  con- 
fusedly and  badly  written,  and  interspersed  with  dull  pa- 
thological and  medical  discussions.  It  is  written,  by  a 
Dr.  Currie.  Do  you  know  the  well-meaning  doctor  ? 
Alas,  ne  sutor  ultra  erepidam  ! 

"  I  hope  to  hear  again  from  you  very  soon.  Godwin  is 
gone  to  L-cland  on  a  visit  to  Grattan.  Before  he  went  I 
passed  much  time  with  him,  and  ho  has  showed  me  par- 
ticular attention:  N.B,  A  thing  I  much  like.  Your 
books  are  all  safe  :  only  I  have  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  fetch  away  your  last  batch,  which  I  understand  are  at 
Johnson's,  the   bookseller,   who  has    got    quite   as  much 

room,  and  will  take  as  much  care  of  them  as  myself and 

you  can  send  for  them  immediately  from  him. 

"  I  wish  you  would  advert  to  a  letter  I  sent  you  at  Grass- 
mere  about  Christabel,  and  comply  with  my  request  con- 
tained therein. 

"  Love  to  all  friends  round  Skiddaw.  C  Lamb." 

8* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

mSCELIANEOUS  LETTERS  TO  MANNING,  COLERIDGE,  AND  WORDSWORTH. 

[ISOO  to  1805.] 

It  would  seem  from  the  letters  of  1800,  that  the  natural 
determination  of  Lamb  "to  take  what  pleasure  he  could 
between  the  acts  of  his  distressful  drama,"  had  led  him 
into  a  wider  circle  of  companionship,  and  had  prompted 
sallies  of  wilder  and  broader  mirth,  which  afterwards  soft- 
ened into  delicacy,  retaining  all  its  whim.  The  following 
passage,  which  concludes  a  letter  to  Manning,  else  occu- 
pied with  merely  personal  details,  proves  that  his  appre- 
hensions for  the  diminution  of  his  reverence  for  sacred 
things  were  not  wholly  unfounded  ;  while,  amidst  its  gro- 
tesque expressions,  may  be  discerned  the  repugnance  to 
the  philosophical  infidelity  of  some  of  his  companions  he 
retained  through  life.  The  passage,  may,  perhaps,  be 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  desperate  compromise  between  a 
wild  gaiety  and  religious  impressions  obscured  but  not  ef- 
faced ;  and  intimating  his  disapprobation  of  infidelity,  with 
a  melancholy  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness  seriously  to 
express  it. 

TO    MR.    MANNING. 

"  Coleridge  inquires  after  you  pretty  often.     I  wish  to 
be  the  pandar  to  bring  you  together  again  once  before  I 
(90) 


LETTER    TO    MANNING.  91 

die.  When  we  die,  you  and  I  must  part ;  tlie  sheep,  you 
know,  take  the  right  hand,  and  the  goats  the  left.  Strip- 
ped of  its  allegory,  you  must  know,  the  sheep  are  T,  and 
the  Apostles  and  the  j\Iartyrs,  and  the  Popes,  and  Bishop 
Taylor,  and  Bishop  Horsley,  and  Coleridge,  &c.,&c. ;  the 
goats  are  the  Atheists,  and  the  Adulterers,  and  dumh  dogs, 

and  Godwin,  and  M g,  and  that  Thyest?ean  crew — 

yaw  !  how  my  saintship  sickens  at  the  idea  ! 

"You  shall  have  my  play  and  the  Falstaff  letters  in  a 
day  or  two.     I  will  write  to  Lloyd  by  this  day's  post. 

"  God  bless  you,  Manning.  Take  my  trifling  as  tri' 
fling — and  believe  me  seriously  and  deeply  your  well- 
Avisher  and  friend,  C.  Lamb." 

In  the  following  letter  Lamb's  fantastic  spirits  find  scope 
freely,  though  in  all  kindness,  in  the  peculiarities  of  the 
learned  and  good  George  Dyer  : — 


TO    MR.    MANNING. 

"August  22nd,  ISOO. 

"Dear  jSIanning. — You  needed  not  imagine  any  apology 
necessary.  Y'our  fine  hare  and  fine  birds  (which  just  noAV 
are  dangling  by  our  kitchen  blaze),  discourse  most  eloquent 
music  in  your  justification.  You  just  nicked  my  palate. 
For,  with  all  due  decorum  and  leave  may  it  be  spoken, 
my  worship  hath  taken  physic  to-day,  and  being  low  and 
puling,  requireth  to  be  pampered.  Fob!  how  beautiful 
and  strong  those  buttered  onions  come  to  my  nose.  For 
you  must  know  we  extract  a  divine  spirit  of  gravy  from 
those  materials,  which,  duly  compounded  with  a  consist- 
ence of  bread  and  cream  (y'clept  bread-sauce),  each  to 
each,  giving  double  grace,  do  mutually  illustrate  and  set 


92  LETTER   TO   MANNING. 

off  (as  skilful  gold-foils  to  rare  jewelsj  your  partridge, 
pheasant,  woodcock,  snipe,  teal,  widgeon,  and  the  other 
lesser  daughters  of  the  ark.  My  friendship,  struggling 
with  my  carnal  and  fleshly  prudence  (which  suggests  that 
a  bird  a  man  is  the  proper  allotment  in  such  cases,  yearn- 
oth  faometimes  to  have  thee  here  to  pick  a  wing  or  so.  I 
q»aestion  if  your  Norfolk  sauces  match  our  London  culin- 
aric. 

"  George  Dyer  has  introduced  me  to  the  table  of  an  agree- 
able old  gentleman,  Dr.  A ,  who  gives  hot  legs  of  mutton 

and  grape  pies  at  his  sylvan  lodge  at  Isleworth ;  where,  in  the 
middle  of  a  street,  he  has  shot  up  a  wall  most  preposter- 
ously before  his  small  dwelling,  which,  with  the  circum- 
stance of  his  taking  several  panes  of  glass  out  of  bedroom 
windows  (for  air)  causeth  his  neighbors  to  speculate  strangely 
on  the  state  of  the  good  man's  pericranicks.  Plainly,  he  lives 
under  the  reputation  of  being  deranged.  George  does 
not  mind  this  circumstance ;  he  rather  likes  him  the  bet- 
ter for  it.  The  Doctor,  in  his  pursuits,  joins  agricultural 
to  poetical  science,  and  has  set  George's  brains  mad  about 
the  old  Scotch  writers,  Barbour,  Douglas's  J^neid,  Blind 
Harry,  &;c.  We  returned  home  in  a  returned  postchaise 
(having  dined  with  the  Doctor,)  and  George  kept  wonder- 
ing, and  wondering,  for  eight  or  nine  turnpike  miles,  what  was 
the  name,  and  striving  to  recollect  the  name  of  a  poet  anterior 
to  Barbour.  I  be2;a;ed  to  know  what  was  remaining  of  his 
works.  '  There  is  nothing  extant  of  his  works,  sir,  but 
by  all  accounts  he  seems  to  have  been  a  fine  gcniub  !  This 
fine  genius,  without  anything  to  show  for  it,  or  any  title 
beyond  George's  courtesy,  Avithout  even  a  name ;  and 
Barbour,  and  Douglas,  and  Blind  Harry,  now  are  the 
predominant  sounds  in  George's  pia  mater,  and  their  buz- 
Siiugs  exclude  politics,  criticism,   and  algebra — the   late 


LETTERS   TO   COLERIDGE.  93 

lords  of  that  illustrious  lumber-room.  Mark,  he  has  never 
read  any  of  these  bucks,  but  is  impatient  till  he  reads 
them  all  at  the  Doctor's  suggestion.  Poor  Dyer !  his 
friends  should  be  careful  what  sparks  they  let  fall  into 
such  inflammable  matter. 

"  Could  I  have  my  will  of  the  heathen,  I  would  lock 
him  up  from  all  access  of  new  ideas ;  I  would  exclude  all 
critics  that  would  not  swear  me  first  (upon  their  Virgil) 
that  they  would  feed  him  with  nothing  but  the  old,  safe, 
familiar  notions  and  sounds  (the  rightful  aborigines  of  his 
brain) — Gray,  Akenside,  and  Mason.  In  these  sounds,  re- 
iterated as  often  as  possible,  there  could  be  nothing  pain- 
ful, nothing  distracting. 

"  God  bless  me,  here  are  the  birds,  smoking  hot ! 

"All  that  is  gross  and  unspiritual  in  me  rises  at  tho 
sight ! 

"  Avaunt  friendship,  and  all  memory  of  absent  friends  ! 

"  C.  Lamb." 

In  the  following  letter,  the  exciting  subjects  of  Dr. 
A and  Dyer  are  further  played  on  :— 


TO    MR.    COLE^ICGE. 

"August  26th,  1800. 

"  George  Dyer  is  the  only  literary  character  I  am  hap- 
pily acquainted  with;  the  oftener  I  see  him,  the  more 
deeply  I  admire  him.  He  is  goodness  itself.  If  I  could 
but  calculate  the  precise  date  of  his  death,  I  would  write 
a  novel  on  purpose  to  make  George  the  hero.  I  could  hit 
him  off  to  a  hair.*     George  brouglit  a  Dr.  A to  see 

*  This  passage,  thus  far,  is  printed  in  the  former  volumes  ;  the  remainder 
was  then  suppressed  (with  other  passages  now  for  the  first  time  published) 
relating  to  Mr.  Dyer,  lest  they  should  give  pain  to  that  excellent  person  then 
living. 


•^'i  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

me.     The  Doctor  is  a  very  i^leasant  old  man,  a  great  ge- 
nius for  agriculture,  one  that  ties  his  breeches-knees  with 
packthread,  and    boasts  of  having   had    disappointments 
from  ministers.     The  Doctor  happened  to  mention  an  epic 
poem  by  one  Wilkie,  called  the  'Epigoniad,'  in  which  he 
assured  us  there  is  not  one  tolerable  line  from  beginning 
to  end,  but    all    the  characters,  incidents,  &c.,  verbally 
copied  from  Homer.     George,  who  had  been  sitting  quite 
inattentive  to  the  Doctor's  criticism,  no  sooner  heard  the 
sound  of  Home7'  strike  his  pericranicks,  than  up  he  gets, 
and  declares  he  must  see  that  poem  immediately :  where 
was  it  to  be  had  ?     An  epic  poem  of  8000  lines,  and  he 
not  hear  of  it !     There  must  be  some  things  good   in  it, 
and  it  was  necessary  he  should  see  it,  for  he  had  touched 
pretty  deeply  upon  that  subject  in  his  criticisms  on  the 
Epic.     George  has  touched  pretty  deeply  upon  the  Lyric, 
I  find  ;  he  has  also  prepared  a  dissertation  on  the  Drama 
and  the  comparison  of  the  English  and  German  theatres. 
As  I  rather  doubted  his  competency  to  do  the  latter,  know- 
ing that  his  peculiar  turyi  lies  in  the  lyric  species  of  com- 
position, I  questioned  George  what  English  plays  he  had  read. 
I  found  that  he  had  read  Shakspeare  (whom  he  calls  an 
original,  but  irregular,  genius) ;  but  it   ?v^as  a  good  while 
ago ;  and  he  has  dipped  into  Rowe  and  Otway,  I  suppose 
having   found  their  names   in   'Johnson's   Lives'   at  full 
length ;  and  upon  this  slender  ground  he  has  undertaken 
the  task.     He  never  seemed  even  to  have  heard  of  Fletcher, 
Ford,  Marlowe,  Massinger,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's 
Collection  ;  but  he  is  to  read  all  these,  to  prepare  him  for 
bringing  out  his  '  Parallel'  in  the  winter.     I  find  he  is  also 
determined  to  vindicate  Poetry  from  the  shackles  which 
Aristole  and  some  others  have  imposed  upon  it,  which  is 
very  good-natured  of  him,  and  very  necessary  just  now ! 


LETTERS   TO   MANNING.  95 

Now  I  am  toucliing  so  deeply  upon  poeiry,  can  I  forget 

that  I  have  just  received  from  D a  magnificent  copy 

of  his  Guinea  Epic.  Four-and-tAventy  Books  to  read  in 
the  dog-days  !     I  got  as  far  as  the  Mad  Monk  the  first 

day,  and  fainted.     Mr.   D 's    genius  strong!}'  points 

him  to  the  Pastoral,  but  his  inclinations  divert  him  per- 
petually from  liis  calling,  lie  imitates  Southey,  as  Rowe 
did  Shakspeare,  with  his  '  Good  morrow  to  ye  ;  good  mas- 
ter Lieutenant.'  Instead  of  a  man,  a  woman,  a  daughter, 
he  constantly  writes  one  a  man,  one  a  woman,  one  his 
daughter.  Instead  of  tlie  king,  the  hero,  he  constantly 
writes,  he  the  king,  he  the  hero ;  two  flowers  of  rhetoric, 

palpably  from  the  '  Joan.'     But  Mr.  D soars  a  higher 

pitch  :  and  when  he  is  original,  it  is  in  a  most  original  way 
indeed.  His  terrific  scenes  are  indefatigable.  Serpents, 
asps,  spiders,  ghosts,  dead  bodies,  staircases  made  of  no- 
thing, with  adders'  tongues  for  bannisters — Good  Heavens 
what  a  brain  he  must  have.  He  puts  as  many  plums  in 
his  pudding  as  my  grandmother  used  to  do ; — and  then 
his  emerging  from  Hell's  horrors  into  light,  and  treading 
on  pure  flats  of  this  earth — for  twenty-three  Books  to- 
gether !  C.  L." 

The  following  letter,  obviously  written  about  the  same 
time,  pursues  the  same  theme.  There  is  some  irritation 
in  it ;  but  even  that  is  curious  enough  to  prevent  the  ex- 
cision of  the  reproduced  passages  : — 

TO    MR.    MANNING. 

"1800, 

"Dear  Manning. — I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you, 

and  am  at  a  loss  how  to  do  it  in  the  most  delicate  manner. 

.For  this  purpose  I  have  been  looking  into  Pliny's  Letters, 

who  is  noted  to  haA'e  had  the  best  grace  in  begging  of  all  tho 


98  LETTERS    TO    MANNING. 

ancients  (I  read  him  in  the  elegant  transLation  of  Mr. 
Melmoth),  but  not  finding  any  case  there  exactly  similar 
with  mine,  I  am  constrained  to  beg  in  my  own  barbarian 
way.  To  come  to  the  point  then,  and  hasten  into  the 
middle  of  things,  have  you  a  copy  of  your  Algebra  to 
give  away  ?  I  do  not  ask  it  for  myself ;  I  have  too  much 
reverence  for  the  Black  Arts,  ever  to  approach  thy  circle, 
illustrious  Trismegist !  But  that  worthy  man,  and  excel- 
lent Poet,  George  Dyer,  made  me  a  visit  yesternight,  on  pur- 
pose to  borrow  one,  supposing  rationally  enough,  I  must 
say,  that  you  had  made  me  a  present  of  one  before  this  ; 
the  omission  of  which  I  take  to  have  proceeded  only  from 
negligence  ;  but  it  is  a  fault.  I  could  lend  him  no  assist- 
ance. You  must  know  he  is  just  now  diverted  from  the 
pursuit  of  the  Bell  Letters  by  a  paradox,  which  he  has 
heard  his  friend  Frend,*  (that  learned  mathematician) 
maintain,  that  the  negative  quantities  of  mathematicians 
were  merce  nugce,  things  scarcely  in  rerum  natura^  and 
smacking  too  much  of  mystery  for  gentlemen  of  Mr. 
Frond's  clear  Unitarian  capacity.  However,  the  dispute 
once  set  a-going,  has  seized  violently  on  George's  pericra- 
nick ;  and  it  is  necessary  for  his  health  that  he  should 
speedily  come  to  a  resolution  of  his  doubts.  He  goes 
about  teasing  his  friends  with  his  new  mathematics ;  he 
even  frantically  talks  of  purchasing  Manning's  Algebra, 
which  shows  him  far  gone,  for,  to  my  knowledge,  he  had 
not  been  master  of  seven  shillings  a  good  time.     George's 

pockets  and 's  brains  are  two  things  in  nature  which 

do  not  abhor  a  vacuum.  .  .  .  Now,  if  you  could  step  in, 
in  this  trembling  suspense  of  his  reason,   and  he  should 

*  Mr.  Frond,  many  years  the  Actuary  of  tho  Rock  Insurance  Office,  in  early 
life  the  thampion  of  Unitarianism  at  Cambridge;  the  object  of  a  great  Univor 
eity's  displeasure;  in  short,  the  "village  Hampden"  of  the  day. 


LETTERS   TO   MANNING.  97 

find  on  Saturday  morning,  lying  for  him  at  the  Porter's 
Lodge,    Clifford's    Inn— his    safest    address— Manning's 
Algebra,   with   a  neat    manuscrlption  in  the  blank  leaf, 
running  thus,  'From  tue  Author!'  it  might  save  his  wits 
and  restore  the  unhappy  author  to  those  studies  of  poetry 
and  criticism,  which  are  at  present  suspended,  to  the  in- 
finite regret  of  the  whole    literary  world.     N.B.— Dirty 
books,  smeared  leaves,  and  dogs'  ears,  will  be  rather  a 
recommendation  than  otherwise.      KB.— He  must  have 
the  book  as  soon  as  possible,  or  nothing  can  withhold  him 
from    madly  purchasing    the  book  on  tick.   .  .  .     Then 
shall  we  see  him  sweetly  restored  to  the  chair  of  Longinus 
—to  dictate  in  smooth  and  modest  phrase  the  law?   of 
verse ;  to  prove  that  Theocritus  first  introduced  the  Pas- 
toral, and  Virgil  and  Pope  brought  it  to  its  perfection ; 
that   Gray  and  Mason  (who   always  hunt  in  couples  in 
George's  brain)  have  shown  a  great  deal  of  poetical  fire 
in  their  lyric   poetry;  that  Aristotle's  rules  are  not  to  be 
servilely  followed,  which  George  has  shown  to  have  im- 
posed great  shackles  upon  modern  genius.     His  poems  I 
find,  are  to  consist  of  two  vols.— reasonable  octavo ;  and  a 
third  book  will  exclusively  contain  criticisms,  in  which  he 
asserts  he  has  gone  pretty  deeply  into  the  laws  of  blank 
verse    and    rhyme— epic    poetry,    dramatic    and  pastoral 
ditto— all  which  is  _to  come  out  before    Christmas.     But 
above  all  he  has  touched  most  deeply  upon  the  Drama, 
comparing  the  English  with  the  modern  German  stage,' 
their  merits  and  defects.     Apprehending  that  his  studiJs 
(not  to  mention  his  turn,  which  I  take  to  be  chiefly  to- 
wards the  lyrical  poetry)  har<lly  qualified  him  for  these 
disquisitions,  I  modestly  inquired  what  [.lays  he  had  read. 
I  found  by  George's  reply  that  he  had  read  Shakspeare, 
but  that  was  a  good  wliile  since  :  he  calls  him  a  great  but 


9 


^^  LETTERS   TO   MANNIiVG. 

irregular  genius,  which  I  think  to  be  an  original  and  just 
remark.  (Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger,  Ben  Jon- 
son,  Shirley,  Marlowe,  Ford,  and  the  worthies  of  Dodsley's 
Collection— he  confessed  he  had  read  none  of  them,  but 
professed  his  intention  of  looking  through  them  all,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  touch  upon  them  in  his  book.)  So  Shaks- 
peare,  Otway,  and  I  believe  Rowe,  to  whom  he  was 
naturally  directed  by  Johnson's  Lives,  and  these  not  read 
lately,  are  to  stand  him  in  stead  of  a  general  knowledge 
of  the  subject.     God  bless  his  dear  absurd  head ! 

"By  the  by,  did  I  not  write  you  a  letter  with  something 
about  an  invitation  in  it— but  let  that  pass ;  I  suppose  it  is 
not  agreeable. 

"N.B.  It  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  were  to  accom- 
pany your  present  with  a  dissertation  on  negative  quan- 
tities. C  L  " 

The  "  Algebra  "  arrived ;  and  Lamb  wrote  the  follow- 
ing invitation,  in  hope  to  bring  the  author  and  the  presen- 
tee together. 

TO  MR.  MANNING. 

"1800. 

"  George  Dyer  is  an  Archimedes,  and  an  Archimagus, 
and  a  Tycho  Brah^,  and  a  Copernicus ;  and  thou  art  the 
darling  of  the  Nine,  and  midwife  to  their  wandering  babe 
also  !  We  take  tea  with  that  learned  poet  and  critic  on 
Tuesday  night,  at  half-past  five,  in  his  neat  library ;  the 
repast  will  be  light  and  Attic,  with  criticism.  If  thou 
couldst  contrive  to  wheel  up  thy  dear  carcass  on  the 
Monday,  and  after  dining  with  us  on  tripe,  calves'  kid- 
neys, or  whatever  else  the  Cornucopia  of  St.  Clare  may 
be  willing  to  pour   out   on  the   occasion,    might  we  not 


LETTERS    TO    MANNING.  99 

adjourn  together  to  tlie  Heathen's— thou  with  thy  Black 
Backs,  and  I  with  some  innocent  volume  of  the  Bell  Letters, 
Shenstone  or  the  like :  it  would  make  him  wash  his  old 
flannel  gown  (that  has  not  been  washed  to  my  knowledge 
since  it  has  been  hts— Oh  the  long  time !)  with  tears  of 
joy.  Thou  shouldst  settle  his  scruples  and  unravel  his 
cobwebs,  and  sponge  ofif  the  sad  stuflf  that  weighs  upoL 
his  dear  wounded  pia  mater ;  thou  shouldst  restore  light 
to  his  eyes,  and  him  to  his  friends  and  the  public ;  Par- 
nassus should  shower  her  civic  crowns  upon  thee  for  saving 
the  wits  of  a  citizen !  I  thought  I  saw  a  lucid  interval  in 
George  the  other  night— he  broke  in  upon  my  studies  just 

at  tea-time,  and   brought  with   him  Dr.  A ,  an  old 

gentleman  who  ties  his  breeches'  knees  with  packthread, 
and  boasts  that  he  has  been  disappointed  by  ministers. 
The  Doctor  wanted  to  see  me;  for  I  being  a  Poet,  he 
thought  I  might  furnish  him  with  a  copy  of  verses  to  suit 
his  Agricultural  Magazine.  The  Doctor,  in  the  course 
of  the  conversation,  mentioned  a  poem  called  the  '  Epigoniad' 
by  one  Wilkie,  an  epic  poem,  in  which  there  is  not  one 
tolerable  good  line  all  through,  but  every  incident  and 
speech  borrowed  from  Homer.  George  had  been  sitting 
inattentive,  seemingly,  to  what  was  going  on — hatching 
of  negative  quantities — when,  suddenly,  the  name  of 
his  old  friend,  Homer,  stung  his  pericranicks,  and  jump- 
ing up,  he  begged  to  know  where  he  could  meet  with  Wil- 
kie's  works.  '  It  was  a  curious  fact  that  there  should  be 
such  an  epic  poem  and  he  not  know  of  it ;  and  he  must 
get  a  copy  of  it,  as  he  was  going  to  touch  pretty  deeply 
upon  the  subject  of  the  Epic— and  he  was  sure  there  must 
be  some  things  good  in  a  poem  of  8000  lines  !'  I  was 
pleased  with  this  transient  return  of  his  reason  and  recur- 
rence to  his  old  ways  of  thinking :  it  gave  me  great  hopes 


100  LETTERS   TO   MANNING. 

of  a  recovery,  Avhich  nothing  but  your  book  can  com- 
pletely insure.  Pray  come  on  Monday,  if  you  caw,  and  stay 
your  own  time.  I  have  a  good  large  room,  with  two  beds 
in  it,  in  the  handsomest  of  which  thou  shalt  repose  a-nights, 
and  dream  of  Spheroides.  I  hope  you  will  understand  by 
the  nonsense  of  this  letter  that  I  am  yiot  melancholy  at  the 
thoughts  of  thy  coming :  I  thought  it  necessary  to  add 
this,  because  you  love  precision.  Take  notice  that  our 
stay  at  Dyer's  will  not  exceed  eight  o'clock,  after  which 
our  pursuits  will  be  our  own.  But  indeed,  I  think  a  little 
recreation  among  the  Bell  Letters  and  poetry  will  do  you 
some  service  in  the  interval  of  severer  studies.  I  hope  we 
shall  fully  discuss  with  George  Dyer  what  I  have  never 
yet  heard  done  to  my  satisfaction,  the  reason  of  Dr.  John- 
son's malevolent  strictures  on  the  higher  species  of  the 
Ode." 

Manning  could  not  come ;  and  Dyer's  subsequent  symp- 
toms are  described  in  the  following  letter  : — 


TO  MR.  MANNING. 

"December  27th,  1800. 

"  At  length  George  Dyer's  phrenesis  has  come  to  a 
crisis  ;  he  is  raging  and  furiously  mad.  I  waited  upon  the 
Heathen,  Thursday  was  a  se'nnight ;  the  first  symptom 
which  struck  my  eye  and  gave  me  incontrovertible  proof 
of  the  fatal  truth  was  a  pair  of  nankeen  pantaloons  four 
times  too  big  for  him,  which  the  said  Heathen  did  perti- 
naciously affirm  to  be  new. 

"  They  were  absolutely  ingrained  with  the  accumulated 
dirt  of  ages  ;  but  he  affirmed  them  to  be  clean.  He  was 
going  to  visit  a  lady  that  was  nice  about  those  things,  and 


LETTERS   TO    3ilAJSrN^J^,41,' ' ',  > '^?  ;',  ;  >   /',  101 

that's  the  reason  he  wore  nankeen  tliat  day.  And  then 
he  danced,  and  capered,  and  fidgeted,  and  pulled  up  his 
pantaloons,  and  hugged  his  intolerable  flannel  vestment 
closer  about  his  poetic  loins ;  anon  he  gave  it  loose  to  the 
zephyrs,  which  plentifully  insinuate  their  tiny  bodies 
through  every  crevice,  door,  window  or  wainscot,  ex- 
pressly formed  for  the  exclusion  of  such  impertinents. 
Then  he  caught  at  a  proof  sheet,  and  catched  up  a  laun- 
dress's bill  instead — made  a  dart  at  Bloomfield's  Poems 
and  threw  them  in  agony  aside.  I  could  not  bring  him  to 
one  direct  reply;  he  could  not  maintain  his  jumping  mind 
in  a  right  line  for  the  tithe  of  a  moment  by  Clifford's  Inn 
clock.  He  must  go  to  the  printer's  immediately — the  most 
unlucky  accident — he  had  struck  off  five  hundred  impres- 
sions of  his  Poems,  which  were  ready  for  delivery  to  sub- 
scribers, and  the  Preface  must  all  be  expuno-ed ;  there 
were  eighty  pages  of  Preface,  and  not  till  that  morning 
had  he  discovered  that  in  the  very  first  page  of  said  Pre- 
face he  had  set  out  with  a  principle  of  Criticism  funda- 
mentally wrong,  which  vitiated  all  his  following  reasoning ; 
the  Preface  must  be  expunged,  although  it  cost  him  30/,, 
the  lowest  calculation,  taking  in  paper  and  printing  !  In 
vain  have  his  real  friends  remonstrated  against  this  Mid- 
summer madness.  George  is  as  obstinate  as  a  Primitive 
Christian— and  wards  and  parries  off  all  our  thrusts  with 
one  unanswerable  fence  ;— '  Sir,  it's  of  great  consequence 
that  the  world  is  not  misled  P 

'^  I've  often  wished  I  lived  in  the  Golden  A  ge,  before 
doubt,  and  propositions,  and  corollaries,  got  into  the  world. 

JVow,  as  Joseph  D ,  a  Pard  of  Nature,  sing  ,  going  uji 

Malv^ern  Hills. 

'  IIow  steep  !  how  piiinful  the  ascent; 
It  needs  tlio  evidence  of  close  deduction 
To  know  that  ever  I  shall  gain  the  top.' 

9* 


102 


LETTE^a,  ,T0    MANNING. 


You  must  know  tliat  Joe  is  lame,  so  that  he  had  some 
reason  for  so  singing.  These  two  lines,  I  assure  you,  are 
taken  totidem  Uteris  from  a  very  popular  poem.  Joe  is 
also  an  Epic  Poet  as  well  as  a  Descriptive,  and  has  written 
a  tragedy,  though  both  his  drama  and  epopoiea  are  strictly 
descriptive,  and  chiefly  of  the  Beauties  of  Nature,  for  Joe 
thinks  man  with  all  his  passions  and  frailties  not  a  proper 
subject  of  the  Drama.  Joe's  tragedy  hath  the  following 
surpassing  speech  in  it.  Some  king  is  told  that  his  enemy 
has  engaged  twelve  archers  to  come  over  in  a  boat  from 
an  enemy's  country  and  waylay  him  ;  he  thereupon  pa- 
thetically exclaims — 

'Twelve,  dost  thou  say?  Curso  on  those  dozen  villains  !' 

D read  two  or  three  acts  out  to  us,  A^ery  gravely  on 

both  sides  till  he  came  to  this  heroic  touch — and  then  he 
asked  what  we  laughed  at  ?  I  had  no  more  muscles  that 
day.  A  poet  that  chooses  to  read  out  his  own  verses  has 
but  a  limited  power  over  you.  There  is  a  bound  where 
his  authority  ceases." 

The  following  letter,  written  some  time  in  1801,  shows 
that  Lamb  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  occasional  employ- 
ment as  a  writer  of  epigrams  for  newspapers,  by  which  he 
added  something  to  his  slender  income.  The  disparaging 
reference  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh  must  not  be  taken  as  ex- 
pressive of  Lamb's  deliberate  opinion  of  that  distinguished 
person.  Mackintosh,  at  this  time,  was  in  great  disfavor, 
for  his  supposed  apostacy  from  the  principles  of  his  youth, 
with  Lamb's  philosophic  friends,  Avhose  minds  were  of 
temperament  less  capable  than  that  of  the  author  of  the 
Vindieice  Crallicce  of  being  diverted  from  abstract  theories 
of  liberty  by  the  crimes  and  sufferings  which  then  at- 
tended the  great   attempt    to  reduce    them   to  practice. 


LETTER    TO    MANNING.  103 

Lamb,  through  life,  utterly  indifferent  to  politics,  was  al- 
ways ready  to  take  part  with  his  friends,  and  probably 
scouted,  with  them,  Mackintosh  as  a  dn-^orter. 


TO  MR.  MANNING. 

"ISOl. 

"  Dear  Manning. — ^I  have  forborne  writing  so  long  (and 
BO  have  you  for  the  matter  of  that),  until  I  am  almost 
ashamed  either  to  write  or  to  forbear  any  longer.  But  as 
your  silence  may  proceed  from  some  worse  cause  than  ne- 
glect— from  illness,  or  some  mishap  which  may  have  be- 
fallen you,  I  begin  to  be  anxious.  You  may  have  been  burnt 
out,  or  you  may  have  married,  or  you  may  have  broken  a 
limb,  or  turned  country  parson  ;  any  of  these  would  be  ex- 
cuse sufficient  for  not  coming  to  my  supper.  I  am  not  so 
unforgiving  as  the  nobleman  in  Saint  Mark.  For  me, 
nothing  new  has  happened  to  me,  unless  that  the  poor 
Albion  died  last  Saturday  of  the  world's  neglect,  and 
with  it  the  fountain  of  my  puns  is  choked  up  for  ever. 

"  All  the  Lloyds  wonder  that  you  do  not  write  to  them. 
They  apply  to  me  for  the  cause.  Relieve  me  from  this 
weight  of  ignorance,  and  enable  me  to  give  a  truly  oracu- 
lar response. 

"  I  have  been  confined  some  days  with  swelled  cheek 
and  rheumatism — they  divide  and  govern  me  with  a  vice- 
roy-headache in  the  middle.  I  can  neither  Avi'ite  nor  read 
without  great  pain."  It  must  be  something  like  obstinacy 
that  I  choose  tliis  time  to  write  to  you  in  aftei  many 
months  interruption. 

''  I  will  close  my  letter  of  simple  inquiry  with  an  epi- 
gram on  Mackintosh,  the  Vindicioe  Gfallicce-ma^n — who  has 
got  a  place  at  last — one  of  the  last  I  did  for  the  Albion: — • 


104  LETTER    TO  MR,  WALTER  WILSON. 

'  Though  thou'rt  like  Judas,  an  apostate  black, 
In  the  resemblance  one  thing  thou  dost  lack  ; 
When  he  had  gotten  his  ill-purchas'd  pelf, 
He  went  away,  and  wiselj'  hang'd  himself; 
This  thou  may  do  at  last,  yet  much  I  doubt, 
If  thou  hast  any  Bowels  to  gush  out  !' 

"  Yours,  as  ever,  C.  Lajub." 

Some  sportive  extravagance  which,  however  inconsistent 
with  Lamb's  early  sentiments  of  reverent  piety,  was  very 
far  from  indicating  an  irreligious  purpose,  seems  to  have 
given  offence  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson,  and  to  have  induced 
the  following  letter,  illustrative  of  the  writer's  feelings  at 
this  time,  on  the  most  momentous  of  all  subjects  : — 


TO  MR.  WALTER  WILSON. 

"August  14th,  1801. 

"  Dear  Wilson. — I  am  extremely  sorry  that  any  serious 
difference  should  subsist  between  us,  on  account  of  some 
foolish  behaviour  of  mine  at  Richmond  ;  you  knew  me  well 
enough  before,  that  a  very  little  liquor  will  cause  a  con- 
siderable alteration  in  me. 

"  I  beg  you  to  impute  my  conduct  solely  to  that,  and 
not  to  any  deliberate  intention  of  offending  you,  from 
whom  I  have  received  so  many  friendly  attentions.  I 
know  that  you  think  a  very  important  difference  in  opinion 
with  respect  to  some  more  serious  subjects  between  us 
makes  me  a  dangerous  companion  ;  but  do  not  rashly  infer, 
from  some  slight  and  light  expressions  which  I  may  have 
made  use  of  in  a  moment  of  levity,  in  your  presence,  with- 
out sufBcient  regard  to  your  feelings — do  not  conclude 
that  I  am  an  inveterate  enemy  to  all  religion.  I  have 
had  a  time  of  seriousness,  and  I  have  known  the  impor- 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  105 

tance  and  reality  of  a  religious  belief.  Latterly,  I  ac- 
knowledge, much  of  mj  seriousness  has  gone  off,  whether 
from  new  company,  or  some  other  new  associations  ;  but  I 
still  retain  at  bottom  a  conviction  of  the  truth,  and  a  cer- 
tainty of  the  usefulness  of  religion.  I  will  not  pretend  to 
more  gravity  or  feeling  than  I  at  present  possess ;  my  in- 
tention is  not  to  persuade  you  that  any  great  alteration 
IS  probably  in  me;  sudden  converts  are  superficial  and 
transitory ;  I  only  want  you  to  believe  that  I  have  stamina 
of  seriousness  within  me,  and  that  I  desire  nothing  more 
than  a  return  of  that  friendly  intercourse  which  used  to 
subsist  between  us,  but  which  my  folly  has  suspended. 
"  Believe  me,  very  affectionately,  yours, 

"C.Lamb." 

In  1803  Coleridge  visited  London,  and  at  his  departure 
left  the  superintendence  of  a  new  edition  of  his  poems  io 
Lamb.  The  following  letter,  written  in  reply  to  one  of 
Coleridge's,  giving  a  mournful  account  of  his  journey  to 
the  north  with  an  old  man  and  his  influenza,  refers  to  a 
splendid  smoking-cap  which  Coleridge  had  worn  at  their 
evening  meetin";s : — 

TO    MR.   COLERIDGE. 

"April  13th,  1803. 

"  My  dear  Coleridge. — Things  have  gone  on  better  with 
me  since  you  left  me.  I  expect  to  have  my  old  house- 
keeper home  again  in  a  week  or  two.  She  has  mended 
most  rapidly.  My  health  too  has  been  better  since  you 
took  away  that  Montero  cap.  I  have  left  off  cayenncd 
eggs  and  such  bolsters  to  discomfort.  There  was  death  in 
that  cap.  I  mischievously  wished  that  by  some  inauspi- 
cious jolt  the  whole  contents  might  be  shaken,  and  the  coach 
set  on  fire ;  for  you  said  they  had  that  property.     IIo^v 


106  LETTER   TO   COLERIDGE. 

the  old  gentleman,  who  joined  you  at  Grantham,  would 
have  clapt  his  hands  to  his  knees,  and  not  knowing  but  it 
was  an  immediate  visitation  of  heaven  that  burnt  him,  how 
pious  it  would  have  made  him ;  him,  I  mean,  that  brought 
the  influenza  with  him,  and  only  took  places  for  one — an 
old  sinner ;  he  must  have  known  what  he  had  got  with  him  ! 
However,  I  wish  the  cap  no  harm  for  the  sake  of  the  head 
it  fits,  and  could  be  content  to  see  it  disfigure  my  healthy 
side-board  again. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  smoking  ?  I  want  your  sober, 
average,  7ioon  opinion  of  it.  I  generally  am  eating  my 
dinner  about  the  time  I  should  determine  it. 
y"  Morning  is  a  girl,  and  can't  smoke — she's  no  evidence 
one  way  or  the  other ;  and  Night  is  so  bought  over,  that 
he  can't  be  a  very  upright  judge.  May  be  the  truth  is, 
that  one  pipe  is  wholesome ;  tivo  pipes  toothsome  ;  tltree 
pipes  noisome ;  four  pipes  fulsome  ;  five  pipes  quarrelsome, 
and  that's  the  sum  on't.  But  that  is  deciding  rather  upon 
rhyme  than  reason.  .  .  .  After  all,  our  instincts  may  be 
best.  Wine,  I  am  sure,  good,  mellow,  generous  Port,  can 
hurt  nobody,  unless  those  who  take  it  to  excess,  which  they 
may  easily  avoid  if  they  observe  the  rules  of  temperance. 

"  Bless  you  old  sophist,  who  next  to  human  nature  taught 
me  all  the  corruption  I  was  capable  of  knowing  !  And 
bless  your  Montero  cap,  and  your  trail  (which  shall  come 
after  you  whenever  you  appoint),  and  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren— Pipes  especially. 

"When  shall  we  two  smoke  again  ?/  Last  night  I  had 
been  in  a  sad  quandary  of  spirits,  in  what  they  call  the 
evening,  but  a  pipe,  and  some  generous  Port,  and  King 
Lear  (being  alone),  had  their  effects  as  solacers.  I  went 
to  bed  pot-valiant.  By  the  way,  may  not  the  Ogles  v^i 
Somersetshire  be  remotely  descended  from  King  Lear  ? 

«C.  L." 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  107 

The  next  letter  is  prefaced  by  happy  news. 

TO    MR.    COLERIDGE. 

"  Mary  sends  love  from  home. 

"1803. 

"  Dear  C. — I  do  confess  that  I  have  not  sent  your 
books  as  I  ought  to  have  done ;  but  you  know  how  the  hu- 
man free-will  is  tethered,  and  that  we  perform  promises 
to  ourselves  no  better  than  to  our  friends.  A  watch  is 
come  for  you.  Do  you  want  it  soon,  or  shall  I  wait  till 
some  one  travels  your  way  ?  You,  like  me,  I  suppose, 
reckon  the  lapse  of  time  from  the  waste  thereof,  as  boys 
let  a  cock  run  to  waste ;  too  idle  to  stop  it,  and  rather 
amused  with  seeing  it  dribble.  Your  poems  have  begun 
printing ;  Longman  sent  to  me  to  arrange  them,  the  old 
and  the  new  together.  It  seems  you  have  left  it  to  him ; 
so  I  classed  them,  as  nearly  as  I  could,  according  to  dates. 
First,  after  the  Dedication,  (which  must  march  first,)  and 
which  I  have  transplanted  from  before  the  Preface,  (which 
stood  like  a  dead  wall  of  prose  between,)  to  be  the  first 
poem — then  comes  'The  Pixies,'  and  the  things  most  ju- 
venile— then  on  'To  Chatterton,'  &c. — on,  lastly,  to  the 
'  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,'  and  '  Musings,' — which  fin- 
ish. Longman  wanted  the  Ode  first,  but  the  arrangement 
I  have  made  is  precisely  that  marked  out  in  the  Dedica- 
tion, following  the  order  of  time.  I  told  Longman  I  was 
sure  that  you  would  omit  a  good  portion  of  the  first  edition. 
I  instanced  several  sonnets,  &;c. — but  that  w^as  not  his 
plan,  and,  as  you  have  done  nothing  in  it,  all  I  could  do 
was  to  arrange  'em  on  the  supposition  that  all  were  to  be 
retained.  A  few  I  positively  rejected;  such  as  that  of 
'  The  Thimble,'  and  that  of  '  Flicker  and  Flicker's  wife,' 
and  that  not  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,  which  you  your' 


108  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

self  had  stigmatised — and  '  The  Man  of  Ross,' —  I  doubt 
-whether  I  should  this  Last.  It  is  not  too  late  to  save  it. 
The  first  proof  is  only  just  come.  I  have  been  forced  to 
call  that  Cupid's  Elixir,  'Kisses.'  It  stands  in  your 
first  volume,  as  an  Effusion,  so  that,  instead  of  prefixing 
The  Kiss  to  that  of  '  One  Kiss,  dear  Maid,'  &c.,  I  have 
ventured  to  entitle  it  '  To  Sara.'  I  am  aware  of  the 
nic3ty  of  changing  even  so  mere  a  trifle  as  a  title  to  so 
short  a  piece,  and  subverting  old  associations ;  but  two 
called  "  Kisses'  would  have  been  absolutely  ludicrous,  and 
'  Effusion'  is  no  name,  and  these  poems  come  close  together. 
I  promise  you  not  to  alter  one  word  in  any  poem  what- 
ever, but  to  take  your  last  text,  where  two  are.  Can  you 
send  any  wishes  about  the  book?  Longman,  I  think, 
should  have  settled  with  you ;  but  it  seems  you  have  left 
it  to  him.  Write  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can  ;  for,  without 
making  myself  responsible,  I  feel  myself,  in  some  sort,  ac- 
cessary to  the  selection,  which  I  am  to  proof-correct ;  but 
I  decidedly  said  to  Biggs  that  I  was  sure  you  would  omit 
more.  Those  I  have  positively  rubbed  off,  I  can  swear  to 
individually,  (except  the  'Man  of  Ross,'  which  is  too  fa- 
miliar in  Pope,)  but  no  others — you  have  your  cue.  For 
my  part,  I  had  rather  all  the  Juvenilia  were  kept — mem- 
orise causa. 

"  Robert  Lloyd  has  written  me  a  masterly  letter,  con- 
taining a  character  of  his  father ;  see  how  different  from 
Charles  he  views  the  old  man  !  [Literatim.)  '  My  father 
smokes,  repeats  Homer  in  Greek,  and  Virgil,  and  is  learn- 
ing, when  from  business,  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  young 
man,  Italian.  He  is,  really,  a  wonderful  man.  He  mixes 
public  and  private  business,  the  intricacies  of  disordering 
life  with  his  religion  and  devotion.  No  one  more  ration- 
ally enjoys  the  romantic  scenes  of  nature,  and  the  chit- 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  100 

chat  and  little  vagaries  of  his  children ;  and,  though  sur- 
rounded with  an  ocean  of  affairs,  the  very  neatness  of  his 
most  obscure  cupboard  in  the  house  passes  not  unnoticed. 
I  never  knew  any  one  view  with  such  clearness,  nor  so 
well  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are,  and  make  such 
allowance,  for  things  which  must  appear  perfect  Syriac  to 
him.'  By  the  last  he  means  the  Lloydisms  of  the  younger 
branches.  His  portrait  of  Charles  (exact  as  far  as  he  has 
had  the  opportunities  of  noting  him)  is  most  exquisite. 
'  Charles  is  become  steady  as  a  church,  and  as  straight- 
forward as  a  Roman  Road.  It  would  distract  him  to  men- 
tion anything  that  was  not  as  plain  as  sense ;  he  seems  to 
have  run  the  whole  scenery  of  life,  and  now  rests  as  the 
formal  precision  of  non-existence.'  Here  is  genius  I  think, 
and  'tis  seldom  a  young  man,  a  Lloyd,  looks  at  a  father 
(so  differing)  with  such  good  nature  while  he  is  alive. 
Write —  I  am  in  post-haste,  C.  Lamb." 

"Love,  &c.,  to  Sara,  P.  and  H." 

The  next  letter,  containing  a  further  account  of  Lamb's 
superintendence  of  the  new  edition,  bears  the  date  of 
Saturday,  27th  May,  1803. 

TO    MR.   COLERIDGE. 

"  My  dear  Coleridge. — The  date  of  my  last  was  one  day 
prior  to  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  full  of  foul  omens.  I 
explain,  lest  you  should  have  thought  mine  too  light  a 
reply  to  such  sad  matter.  I  seriously  hope  by  this  time 
you  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  journeying  to  the  green  . 
Islands  of  the  Blest — voyages  in  time  of  war  are  very  pre- 
carious— or  at  least,  that  you  will  take  them  in  your  way 
to  the  Azores.  Pray  be  careful  of  this  letter  till  it  has 
done  its  duty,  for  it  is  to  inform  you  that  I  have  booked 
10 


110  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

off  your  watch  (laid  in  cotton  like  an  untimely  fruit),  and 
with  it  Condillac,  and  all  other  books  of  yours  which  were 
left  here.  These  will  set  out  on  Monday  next,  the  29th 
May,  by  Kendal  wagon,  from  White  Horse,  Cripplegate. 
"iou  will  make  seasonable  inquiries,  for  a  watch  mayn't 
come  your  way  again  in  a  hurry.  I  have  been  repeatedly 
after  Tobin,  and  now  hear  that  he  is  in  the  country,  not 
to  return  till  middle  of  June.  I  will  take  care  and  see 
him  with  the  earliest.  But  cannot  you  write  pathetically 
to  him,  enforcing  a  speedy  mission  of  your  books  for  lite- 
rary purposes  ?  He  is  too  good  a  retainer  to  Literature, 
to  let  her  interests  suffer  through  his  default.  And  why, 
in  the  name  of  Beelzebub,  are  your  books  to  travel  from 
Barnard's  Inn  to  the  Temple,  and  thence  circuitously  to 
Cripplegate,  when  their  business  is  to  take  a  short  cut 
down  Holborn-hill,  up  Snow  do,,  on  to  Wood-street,  &c.  ? 
The  former  mode  seems  a  sad  superstitious  subdivision  of 
labor.  Well !  the  '  Man  of  Ross'  is  to  stand  ;  Lono-man 
begs  for  it ;  the  printer  stands  with  a  wet  sheet  in  one 
hand,  and  a  useless  Pica  in  the  other,  in  tears,  pleading 
for  it ;  I  relent.  Besides,  it  was  a  Salutation  poem,  and 
has  the  mark  of  the  beast  '  Tobacco'  upon  it.  Thus  much 
I  have  done ;  I  have  swept  off  the  lines  about  widows  and 
orphans  in  second  edition,  which  (if  you  remember)  you 
most  awkwardly  and  illogically  caused  to  be  inserted 
between  two  Ifs,  to  the  great  breach  and  disunion  of  said 
Ifs,  which  now  meet  again  (as  in  first  edition),  like  two 
clever  lawyers  arguing  a  case.  Another  reason  for  sub- 
tracting the  pathos  was,  that  the  '  Man  of  Ross'  is  too 
familiar,  to  need  telling  what  he  did,  especially  in  worse 
lines  than  Pope  told  it,  and  it  now  stands  simply  as  '  Re- 
flections at  an  Inn  about  a  known  Character,'  and  sucking 
an  old  story  into  an  accommodation  with  present  feelings. 


LETTERS  TO   WORDSWORTH.  Ill 

Here  is  no  breaking  spears  with  Pope,  but  a  new,  inde- 
pendent, and  really  a  very  pretty  poem.  In  fact  'tis  as 
I  used  to  admire  it  in  the  first  volume,  and  I  have  even 
dared  to  restore 

'If 'neath  this  roof  thy  wine-cheer'd  mcments  pass,' 

for 

'Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheer'd  moments  pass/ 

*  Cheer'd'  is  a  sad  general  word,  '  wine-cheer  d'  I'm  sure 
you'd  give  me,  if  I  had  a  speaking-trumpet  to  sound  to 
you  300  miles.  But  I  am  your  factotum,  and  that  save 
in  this  instance,  which  is  a  single  case,  and  I  can't  get  at 
you,  shall  be  next  to  afac-nihil — at  most  2k  facsimile.  I 
have  ordered  '  Imitation  of  Spenser'  to  be  restored  on 
Wordsworth's  authority ;  and  now,  all  that  you  will  miss 
will  be  'Flicker  and  Flicker's  Wife,'  'The  Thimble,' 
'Breathe,  dear  harmonist,'  and  I  believe,  'The  Child  that 
was  fed  with  Manna.'  Another  volume  will  clear  off  all 
your  Anthologic  Morning-Postian  Epistolary  Miscellanies; 
but  pray  don't  put  '  Christabel'  therein ;  don't  let  that 
sweet  maid  come  forth  attended  with  Lady  Holland's  mob 
at  her  heels.  Let  there  be  a  separate  volume  of  Tales, 
Choice  Tales,  'Ancient  Mariners,'  &c.  C.  Lamb." 

The  following  is  the  fragment  of  a  letter  (part  being 
lost),  on  the  re-appearance  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  two 
volumes,  and  addressed 

TO  MR.  AVORDSWORTir. 

"  Thanks  for  your  letter  and  present.  I  had  already 
borrowed  your  second  volume.  What  most  please  me  are, 
'  The  Song  of  Lucy ;'  Simon  s  sickly  daughter,  in  '  The 


^12  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

Sexton'  made  me  cry.  Next  to  these  are  the  description 
of  the  continuous  echoes  in  the  story  of  'Joanna's  Laugh,' 
where  the  mountains,  and  all  the  scenery  absolutely  seem 
alive  ;  and  that  fine  Shaksjoearian  character  of  the  '  happy 
man,'  in  the  'Brothers,' 

'that  creeps  about  the  fields, 

Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheeks,  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead !' 

I  will  mention  one  more— the  delicate  and  curious  feeling 
in  the   wish  for  the  'Cumberland  Beggar,'  that  he  may 
have  about  him  the  melody  of  birds,  altho'  he  hear  them 
not.     Here  the  mind  knowingly  passes  a  fiction  upon  her- 
self, first  substituting  her  own  feelings  for  the  Bego-ar's, 
and  in  the  same  breath  detecting  the  fallacy,  will  not  part 
with  the  Avish.     The  '  Poet's  Epitaph'  is  disfigured,  to  my 
taste,  by  the  common  satire  upon  parsons  and  lawyers  in 
the  beginning,  and  the  coarse  epithet  of  'pin-point,'  in 
the    sixth    stanza.     All  the  rest  is  eminently  good,   and 
your  own.     I  will  just  add  that  it  appears  to  me  a  fault  in 
the  '  Beggar,'  that  the  instructions  conveyed  in  it  are  too 
direct,  and  like  a  lecture :  they  don't  slide  into  the  mind 
of  the  reader  while  he  is  imagining  no  such  matter.     An 
intelligent  reader  finds  a  sort  of  insult  in  being  told,  'I 
will  teach  you  how  to  think  upon  this  subject.'     This  fault, 
if  I  am  right,  is  in  a  ten-thousandth  worse  degree  to  be 
found  in  Sterne,  and  many  many  novelists  and  modern 
poets,  who  continually  put  a  sign-post  up  to  show  where 
you  are  to  feel.     They  set  out  with  assuming  their  readers 
to  be  stupid;  very  different  from  'Robinson  Crusoe,'  'The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  'Roderick  Random,'  and  other   beau- 
tiful,   bare    narratives.     There  is  implied    an    unwritten 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  113 

compact  between  author  and  reader  ;  '  I  will  tell  you  a 
?tory,  and  I  suppose  you  will  understand  it.'  Modern 
novels,  '  St.  Leons'  and  the  like,  are  full  of  such  flowers 
as  these — 'Let  not  my  reader  suppose/  'Imagine,  if  you 
can,  modest !'  &c.  I  will  here  have  done  Avith  praise  and 
blame.  I  have  written  so  much,  only  that  you  may  not 
think   I   have   passed    over  your    book  without    observa 

tion I  am  sorry  that  Coleridge  has  christened  his 

'Ancient  Marinere'  'a  Poet's  Reverie;'  it  is  as  bad  as 
Bottom  the  Weaver's  declaration  that  he  is  not  a  lion,  but 
only  the  scenical  representation  of  a  lion.  What  new 
idea  is  gained  by  this  title  but  one  subversive  of  all  credit 
— which  the  tale  should  force  upon  u>— of  its  truth  ! 

For  me,  I  was  never  so  affected  with  any  human  tale. 
After  first  reading  it,  I  was  totally  possessed  with  it  for 
many  days.  I  dislike  all  the  miraculous  part  of  it,  but 
the  feelings  of  the  man  under  the  operation  of  such  scenery, 
dragged  me  along  like  Tom  Pipes's  magic  whistle.  I  to- 
tally differ  from  your  idea  that  '  Marinere'  should  have 
had  a  character  and  profession.  This  is  a  beauty  in  '  Gul- 
liver's Travels,'  where  the  mind  is  kept  in  a  placid  state 
of  little  wonderments  ;  but  the  '  Ancient  Marinere'  under- 
goes such  trials  as  overwhelm  and  bury  all  individuality 
or  memory  of  what  he  was — like  the  state  of  a  man  in  a 
bad  dream,  one  terrible  peculiarity  of  which  is,  that  all 
consciousness  of  personality  is  gone.  Your  other  obser- 
vation is,  I  think  as  well,  a  little  unfounded :  the  '  Marinere,' 
from  being  conversant  in  supernatural  events,  has  acquired 
a  supernatural  and  strange  cast  of  j^hrase,  eye,  appear- 
ance, &;c.,  which  frighten  the  'wedding-guest.'  You  will 
excuse  my  remarks,  because  I  am  hurt  and  vexed  that 
you  should  think  it  necessary,  Avith  a  prose  apology,  to 
open  the  eyes  of  dead  men  that  cannot  see. 

10* 


^14  LETTERS   TO   WORDSWORTH. 

"  To  sum  up  a  general  opinion  of  the  second  volume,  I 
do  not  feel  any  one  poem  in  it  so  forcibly  as  the  '  Ancient 
Marinere,'  the  'Mad  Mother/  and  the  'Lines  at  Tintern 
Abbey'  in  the  first." 

The  following  letter  was  addressed,  on  28th  September, 
1805,  when  Lamb  was  bidding  his  generous  farewell  to 
Tcbacco,  to  Wordsworth,  then  living  in  noble  poverty 
with  his  sister  in  a  cottage  by  Grasmere,  which  is  as  sacred 
to  some  of  his  old  admirers  as  even  Shakspeare's  House. 


TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"  My  dear  Wordsworth  (or  Dorothy  rather,  for  to  you 
appertains  the  biggest  part  of  this  answer  by  right),  I  will 
not  again  deserve  reproach  by  so  long  a  silence.  I  have 
kept  deluding  myself  with  the  idea  that  Mary  would  write 
to  you,  but  she  is  so  lazy  (or  I  believe  the  true  state  of  the 
case,  so  diffident),  that  it  must  revert  to  me  as  usual : 
though  she  writes  a  pretty  good  style,  and  has  some  notion 
of  the  force  of  words,  she  is  not  always  so  certain  of  the 
true  orthography  of  them  ;  and  that,  and  a  poor  hand- 
writing (in  this  age  of  female  calligraphy),  often  deters 
her,  where  no  other  reason  does.* 

"  We  have  neither  of  us  been  very  well  for  some  weeks 
past.  I  am  very  nervous,  and  she  most  so  at  those  times 
when  I  am ;  so  that  a  merry  friend,  adverting  to  the  noble 
consolation  we  were  able  to  aiford  each  other,  denominated 
us,  not  unaptly,  Gum-Boil  and  Tooth-Ache,  for  they  used 
to  say  that  a  gum-boil  is  a  great  relief  to  a  tooth-ache. 

"  We  have   been   two  tiny  excursions  this  summer  for 

*  This  is  mere  banter;  Miss  Lamb  wrote  a  very  good  hand. 


LETTERS    TO    AVORDSWORTH.  115 

three  or  four  days  each,  to  a  place  near  Harrow  and  to 
Egham,  where  Cooper's  Iliil  is :  and  that  is  the  total  his- 
tory of  our  rustications  this  year.  Alas  !  how  poor  a 
round  to  Skiddaw  and  Helvellyn,  and  Borrowdale,  and 
the  magnificent  sesquipedalia  of  the  year  1802.  Poor  old 
Molly  !  to  have  lost  her  pride,  that '  last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds,'  and  her  cow.  Fate  need  not  have  set  her  wits  to 
such  an  old  Molly.  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  her.  Re- 
member us  lovingly  to  her  ;  and  in  particular  remember 
us  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  in  the  most  kind  manner. 

"I  hope,  by  'southwards,'  you  mean  that  she  will  be  at 
or  near  London,  for  she  is  a  great  favorite  of  both  of  us, 
and  w^e  feel  for  her  health  as  much  as  possible  for  any  one 
to  do.  She  is  one  of  the  friendliest,  comfortablest  women 
we  know^,  and  made  our  little  stay  at  your  cottage  one  of 
the  pleasantest  times  we  ever  past.  We  were  quite 
strangers  to  her.  Mr.  C.  is  with  you  too;  our  kindest 
separate  remembrances  to  him.  As  to  our  special  affairs, 
I  am  looking  about  me.  I  have  done  nothing  since  the 
beginning  of  last  year,  when  I  lost  my  newspaper  job,  and 
having  had  a  long  idleness,  I  must  do  something,  or  we 
shall  get  very  poor.  Sometimes  I  think  of  a  farce,  but 
hitherto  all  schemes  have  gone  off;  an  idle  brag  or  two 
of  an  evening,  vaporing  out  of  a  pipe,  and  going  oflF  in  the 
morning ;  but  now  I  have  bid  farewell  to  my  '  sweet  enemy,' 
Tobacco,  as  you  will  see  in  my  next  page,*  I  shall  perhaps 
set  nobly  to  work.     Hang  work  ! 

"I  wish  that  all  the  year  were  holiday ;  I  am  sure  that  in- 
dolence— indefeasible  indolence — is  the  true  state  of  man, 
and  business  the  invention  of  the  old  Teazer,  whose  inter- 


*  The  "  Farewell  to  Tobacco"  was  transcribed  on  the  next  page  ;  but  the  ac. 
tual  sacrifice  was  not  completed  till  some  years  after. 


116  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

ference  doomed  Adam  to  an  apron,  and  set  him  a  hoeing. 
Pen  and  ink,  and  clerks  and  desks,  were  the  refinements 
of  this  old  torturer  some  thousand  years  after,  under  pre- 
tence of  '  Commerce  allying  distant  shores,  promoting  and 
diffusing  knowledge,  good,'  &c.  &c.  Yours  truly, 

"C.  Lamb." 


CHAPTER  V. 

LETTERS  TO  HAZLITT,  ETC. 

[1805  to  ISIO.] 

About  the  year  1805  Lamb  was  introduced  to  odo 
whose  society  through  life  was  one  of  his  chief  pleasures— 
the  great  critic  and  thinker,  William  Hazlitt— who,  at 
that  time,  scarcely  conscious  of  his  own  literary  powers, 
was  striving  hard  to  become  a  painter.  At  the  period  of 
the  following  letter  (which  is  dated  15th  March,  1806) 
Hazlitt  was  residing  with  his  father,  an  Unitarian  minister 
at  Wem. 

TO  MR.  HAZLITT. 

"  Dear  H. — I  am  a  little  surprised  at  no  letter  from 
you.  This  day  week,  to  wit,  Saturday  the  8th  of  March, 
180G,  I  book'd  off  by  the  Wem  coach,  Bull  and  Mouth 
Inn,  directed  to  you,  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Ilazlitt's,  Wem, 
Shropshire,  a  parcel  containing,  besides  a  book,  &c.,  a 
rare  print,  which  I  take  to  be  a  Titian  ;  begging  the  said 
W.  II.  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  thereof;  Avhich  he  not 
having  done,  I  conclude  the  said  parcel  to  be  lying  at  the 
inn,  and  may  be  lost ;  for  which  reason,  lest  you  may  be  a 
Wales-hunting  at  this  instant,  I  have  authorised  any  of 
your  family,  whosoever  first  gets  this,  to  open  it,  that  so 

(117) 


118  LETTER  TO  IIAZLITT. 

precious  a  parcel  may  not  moulder  away  for  want  of  look- 
ing after.  What  do  you  in  Shropshire  when  so  many  fine 
pictures  are  a-going  a-going  every  day  in  London  ?  Mon- 
day I  visit  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne's,  in  Berkley 
Square.  Catalogue  2s.  6d.  Leonardos  in  plenty.  Some 
other  day  this  week,  I  go  to  see  Sir  Wm.  Young's,  in 
Stratford  Place.  Hulse's,  of  Blackheath,  are  also  to  be 
sohl  this  month,  and  in  May,  the  first  private  collection 
in  Europe,  Welbore  Ellis  Agar's.  And  there  are  you  per- 
verting Nature  in  lying  landscapes,  filched  from  old  rusty 
Titians,  such  as  I  can  scrape  up  here  to  send  you,  with  an 
additament  from  Shropshire  nature  thrown  in  to  make  the 
■whole  look  unnatural.  I  am  afraid  of  your  mouth  water- 
ing vfhen  I  tell  you  that  Manning  and  I  got  into  Anger- 
stein's  on  Wednesday.  J\Ion  Dieu !  Such  Claudes  ' 
Four  Claudes  bought  for  more  than  10,000Z.  (those  who 
talk  of  W^ilson  being  equal  to  Claude  are  either  mainly 
ignorant  or  stupid) ;  one  of  these  was  perfectly  miraculous. 
What  colors  short  of  bona  fide  sunbeams  it  could  be  painted 
in,  I  am  not  earthly  colorman  enough  to  say;  but  I  did 
not  think  it  had  been  in  the  possibility  of  things.  Then, 
a  music-piece  by  Titian — a  thousand-pound  picture — five 
figures  standing  behind  a  piano,  the  sixth  playing ;  none 
of  the  heads,  as  M.  observed,  indicating  great  men,  or  af- 
fecting it,  but  so  sweetly  disposed ;  all  leaning  separate 
ways,  but  so  easy,  like  a  flock  of  some  divine  shepherd  ; 
the  coloring,  like  the  economy  of  the  picture,  so  sw^eet  and 
harmonious — as  good  as  Shakspeare's  '  Twelfth  Night,' — 
almost,  that  is.  It  will  give  you  a  love  of  order,  and  cure 
you  of  restless,  fidgety  passions  for  a  week  after — more 
musical  than  the  music  which  it  would,  but  cannot,  yet  in 
a  manner  does,  show.  I  have  no  room  for  the  rest.  Let 
me  say,  Angerstein  sits  in  a  room — his  study  (only  that 


LETTER   TO  MRS.  HAZLITT.  119 

and  the  library  are  shown),  when  he  writes  a  common 
letter,  as  I  am  doing,  surrounded  with  twenty  pictures 
worth  60,0001.  What  a  luxury  !  Apicius  and  Helioga- 
balus,  hide  your  diminished  heads  ! 

"  Yours,  my  dear  painter, 

"  C.  Lamb." 

Hazlitt  married  Miss  Sarah  Stoddart,  sister  of  the  pre- 
sent Sir  John  Stoddart,  who  became  very  intimate  with 
Lamb  and  his  sister.  To  her  Lamb,  on  the  11th  Decem- 
ber, 1806,  thus  communicated  the  failure  of  "Mr.  H." 


TO  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

"  Don't  mind  this  being  a  queer  letter.  I  am  in  haste, 
and  taken  up  by  visitors,  condolers,  &c.     God  bless  you. 

"  Dear  Sarah. — ^Mary  is  a  little  cut  at  the  ill  success 
of  '  Mr.  H.'  which  came  out  last  night,  and  failed.  I 
know  you'll  be  sorry,  but  never  mind.  We  are  deter- 
mined not  to  be  cast  down.  I  am  going  to  leave  off  to- 
bacco, and  then  we  must  thrive.  A  smoking  man  must 
■write  smoky  farces. 

"  Mary  is  pretty  well,  but  I  persuaded  her  to  let  me 
write.  We  did  not  apprise  you  of  the  coming  out  of  '  Mr. 
H.'  for  fear  of  ill-luck.  You  were  much  better  out  of  the 
house.  If  it  had  taken,  your  partaking  of  our  good  luck 
would  liave  been  one  of  our  greatest  joys.  As  it  is,  we 
shall  expect  you  at  the  time  you  mentioned.  But  when- 
ever  you  come  you  shall  be  most  welcome. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  Sarah, 

"  Yours,  most  truly,         C.  L. 


120  LETTERS   TO    WORDSWORTH. 

"  Mary  is  by  no  means  unwell,  but  I  made  her  let  me 
write." 

The  following  is  Lamb's  account  of  the  same  calamity, 
addressed 


TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"  Mary's  love  to  all  of  you — I  wouldn't  let  her  write. 

"Dear  Wordsworth. — 'Mr.  H.'  came  out  last  night, 
and  failed.  I  had  many  fears  ;  the  subject  was  not  sub- 
stantial enough.  John  Bull  must  have  solider  fare  than  a 
letter.  We  are  pretty  stout  about  it ;  have  had  plenty  of 
condoling  friends ;  but,  after  all,  we  had  rather  it  should 
have  succeeded.  You  will  see  the  prologue  in  most  of 
the  morning  papers.  It  was  received  with  such  shouts  as 
I  never  witnessed  to  a  prologue.  It  was  attempted  to  be 
encored.  How  hard  !— a  thing  I  did  merely  as  a  task, 
because  it  was  wanted,  and  set  no  great  store  by ;  and 
'  Mr.  H.' ! !  The  quantity  of  friends  we  had  in  the  house— 
my  brother  and  I  being  in  public  offices,  &c. — was  aston- 
ishing, but  they  yielded  at  last  to  a  few  hisses. 

"  A  hundred  hisses  !  (Hang  the  word,  I  write  it  like 
kisses— how  different!) — a  hundred  hisses  outweigh  a 
thousand  claps.  The  former  come  more  directly  from  the 
heari.     Well,  'tis  withdrawn,  and  there  is  an  end. 

'■Better  luck  to  us,  C  Lamb. 


"P.S.  Pray,  when  any  of  you  write  to  the  Clarksons 
give  our  kind  l.ves,  and  say  Tve  shall  not  be  able  to  come 
Dnd  see  th?m  a-:,  Christmas,  as  I  shall  have  but  a  day  or 
two,  and  tell  them  we  bear  our  mortification  pretty  well.' 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  121 

About  this  time  Miss  Lamb  sought  to  contribute  to  her 
brother's  scanty  income  bj  presenting  the  plots  of  some 
of  Shakspeare's  plays  in  prose,  with  the  spirit  of  the  poet's 
genius  interfused,  and  many  of  his  happiest  expressions 
preserved,  in  which  good  work  Lamb  assisted  her;  though 
he  always  insisted,  as  he  did  in  reference  to  "  Mrs.  Lei- 
cester's School,"  that  her  portions  were  the  best.  The 
following  letter  refers  to  some  of  those  aids,  and  gives 
a  pleasant  instance  of  that  shyness  in  Hazlitt,  which  he 
never  quite  overcame,  and  which  afforded  a  striking  con- 
trast to  the  boldness  of  his  published  thoughts. 


TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"1S06. 

"Mary  is  just  stuck  fast  in  'All's  Well  that  Ends 

Well.'     She  complains  of  having  to  set  forth  so  many  female 

characters  in  boys'  clothes.     She  begins  to  think  Shaks- 

peare  must  have  wanted — Imagination.     I,  to  encourage 

her,  for  she  often  faints  in  the  prosecution  of  her  great  work> 

flatter  her  with  telling  her  how  well  such  a  play  and  such 

a  play  is  done.     But  she  is  stuck  fast,  and  I  have  been 

obliged  to  promise  to  assist  her.     To  do  this,  it  will  be 

necessary  to  leave  off  tobacco.     But  I  had  some  thoughts 

of  doing  that  before,   for  I  sometimes   think  it  docs   not 

agree  with  me.     W.  Hazlitt  is  in  town.     I  took  him  to  see 

a  very  pretty  girl,   professedly,   where    there  were    two 

young  girls— the  very  head   and   sum  of  the  girlery  was 

two  young  girls— they  neither  laughed,  nor  sneered,  nor 

giggled,  nor  whispered— but  they  were  young  girls— and 

he  sat  and  frowned   blacker   and  blacker,   indignant   that 

there  should  be  such  a  thing  as  youth  and  beauty,  till  he 

tore  me  away  before  supper,  in  perfect  misery,  and  owned 
11 


122  LETTER    TO    IIAZLITT. 

he  could  not  bear  young  girls  ;  they  drove  him  mad.  So 
I  took  him  home  to  my  old  nurse,  where  he  recovered  per- 
fect tranquillity.  Independent  of  this,  and  as  I  am  not  a 
young  girl  myself,  he  is  a  great  acquisition  to  us.  He  is, 
rather  imprudently  I  think,  printing  a  political  pamphlet 
on  his  own  account,  and  will  have  to  pay  for  the  paper, 
&c.  The  first  duty  of  an  author,  I  take  it,  is  never  to  pay 
anything.  But  non  cuivis  contigit  adire  Corinthum.  The 
managers,  I  thank  my  stars,  have  settled  that  question  for 
i^e.  Yours  truly,         C.  Lamb." 

Hazlitt,  coming  to  reside  in  town,  became  a  frequent 
guest  of  Lamb's,  and  a  brilliant  ornament  of  the  parties 
which  Lamb  now  began  to  collect  on  Wednesday  evenings. 
He  seems,  in  the  beginning  of  1808,  to  have  sought  soli- 
tude in  a  little  inn  on  Salisbury  Plain,  to  which  he  became 
deeply  attached,  and  which  he  has  associated  Avith  some 
of  his  profoundest  meditations  ;  and  some  fantastic  letter, 
in  the  nature  of  a  hoax,  having  puzzled  his  father,  who 
expected  him  at  Wem,  caused  some  inquiries  of  Lamb  re- 
specting the  painter's  retreat,  to  which  he  thus  replied  in 
a  letter  to 


THE  REV.  MR.  HAZLITT. 

"Temple,  18th  February,  1S08. 

"  Sir. — I  am  truly  concerned  that  any  mistake  of  mine 
should  have  caused  you  uneasiness,  but  I  hope  we  have 
got  a  clue  to  William's  absence,  which  may  clear  up  all 
apprehensions.  The  people  where  he  lodges  in  town  have 
received  direction  from  him  to  forward  some  liner  to  a 
place  called  Winterslow,  in  the  county  of  Wilts  (not  far 
from  Salisbury),  where  the  lady  lives  whose  cottage,  pic- 
tured upon  a  card,  if  you   opened   my  letter  you  have 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  123 

doubtless  seen,  and  though  we  have  had  no  explanation  of 
the  mystery  since,  we  shrewdly  suspect  that  at  the  time 
of  writing  that  letter,  which  has  given  you  all  this  trouble, 
a  certain  son  of  yours  (who  is  both  painter  and  author) 
was  at  her  elbow,  and  did  assist  in  framing  that  very  car- 
toon which  was  sent  to  amuse  and  mislead  us  in  town,  as 
to  the  real  place  of  his  destination. 

"And  some  words  at  the  back  of  the  said  cartoon, 
which  we  had  not  marked  so  narrowly  before,  by  the 
similarity  of  the  handwriting  to  William's,  do  very  much 
confirm  the  suspicion.  If  our  theory  be  right,  they  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  their  jest,  and  I  am  afraid  you  have 
paid  for  it  in  anxiety. 

"  But  I  hope  your  uneasiness  will  now  be  removed,  and 
you  will  pardon  a  suspense  occasioned  by  Love,  who  does 
so  many  worse  mischiefs  every  day. 

"  The  letter  to  the  people  where  William  lodges  says, 
moreover,  that  he  shall  be  in  town  in  a  fortnight. 

"  My  sister  joins  in  respects  to  you  and  Mrs.  Ilazlitt, 
and  in  our  kindest  remembrances  and  wishes  for  the  re- 
storation of  Peggy's  health. 

"I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant,  C.  Lamb." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazlitt  afterwards  took  up  their  tem- 
porary abode  at  WintersloAv,  to  which  place  Miss  Lamb 
addressed  the  folloAving  letter,  containing  interesting  details 
of  her  own  and  her  brother's  life,  and  illustrating  her  own 
gentle  character  — 

TO  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

"Decemftpr  10th,  1S08. 

"  My  dear  Sarali. — I  hear  of  you  from  your  brother, 
but  you  do  not  write  yourself,  nor  does  ILizlitt.     I  l)Og 


124  LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT. 

that  one  or  both  of  you  -will  amend  this  fault  as  speedily 
as  possible,  for  I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  of  your  health. 
I  hope,  as  you  say  nothing  about  your  fall  to  your  brother, 
you  are  perfectly  recovered  from  the  effects  of  it. 

"You  cannot  think  how  very  much  we  miss  you  and  H. 
of  a  Wednesday  evening — all  the  glory  of  the  night,  1 
may  say,  is  at  an  end.  Phillips  makes  his  jokes,  and  there 
is  no  one  to  applaud  him  ;  Rickman  argues,  and  there  is 
no  one  to  oppose  him. 

"  The  worst  miss  of  all  to  me  is,  that  when  we  are  in 
the  dismals  there  is  now  no  hope  of  relief  from  any  quar- 
ter whatsoever.  Hazlitt  was  most  brilliant,  and  most 
ornamental,  as  a  Wednesday-man,  but  he  was  a  more  use- 
ful one  on  common  days,  when  he  dropt  in  after  a  quarrel 
or  a  fit  of  the  glooms.  The  Sheffington  is  quite  out  now,  my 
brother  having  got  merry  with  claret  and  Tom  Sheridan. 
This  visit,  and  the  occasion  of  it,  is  a  profound  secret,  and 
therefore  I  tell  it  to  nobody  but  you  and  Mrs.  Reynolds. 
Through  the  medium  of  Wroughton,  there  came  an  invita- 
tion and  proposal  from  T.  S.  that  C.  L.  should  write  some 
scenes  m  a  speaKing  pantomime,  the  other  parts  of  which 
Tom  now,  and  his  father  formerly,  have  manufactured 
between  them.  So  in  the  Christmas  holidays  my  brother, 
and  his  two  great  associates,  we  expect  will  be  all  three 
damned  together  ;  this  is,  I  mean  if  Charles's  share,  which 
is  done  and  sent  in,  is  accepted. 

"I  left  this  unfinished  yesterday,  in  the  hope  that  my 
brother  would  have  done  it  for  me.  His  reason  for  re- 
fusing me  was  'no  exquisite  reason,'  for  it  was  because  he 
must  write  a  letter  to  Manning  in  three  or  four  weeks, 
and  therefore  'he  could  not  be  always  wTiting  letters,'  he 
said.  I  wanted  him  to  tell  your  husband  about  a  great 
work  Avhich  Godwin  is  going  to  publish  to  enlighten  the 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  125 

world  once  more,  and  I  sliall  not  be  able  to  make  out  what 
it  is.  He  (Godwin)  took  his  usual  walk  one  evening,  a 
fortnight  since,  to  the  end  of  Hatten  Garden  and  back  again. 
During;  that  walk  a  thouirht  came  into  his  mind,  which  he 
instantly  sate  down  and  improved  upon  till  he  brought  it, 
in  seven  or  eight  days,  into  the  compass  of  a  reasonable 
sized  pamphlet. 

"  To  propose  a  subscription  to  all  well-disposed  people 
to  raise  a  certain  sum  of  money,  to  be  expended  in  the 
care  of  a  cheap  monument  for  the  former  and  the  future 
great  dead  men  ;  the  monument  to  be  a  white  cross,  with  a 
wooden  slab  at  the  end,  telling  their  names  and  qualifica- 
tions. This  wooden  slab  and  white  cross  to  be  perpetuated 
to  the  end  of  time  ;  to  survive  the  fall  of  empires,  and  the 
destruction  of  cities,  by  means  of  a  map,  which,  in  case 
of  an  insurrection  among  the  people,  or  any  other  cause 
by  which  a  city  or  country  may  be  destroyed,  was  to  bo 
carefully  preserved ;  and  then,  when  things  got  again  into 
their  usual  order,  the  white-cross-wooden-slab-makers  were 
to  go  to  Avork  again  and  set  the  Avooden  slabs  in  their 
former  places.  This,  as  nearly  as  I  can  tell  you,  is  the 
sum  and  substance  of  it ;  but  it  is  written  remarkably  well 
— in  his  very  best  manner  —  for  the  proposal  (which  seems 
to  me  very  like  throwing  salt  on  a  sparrow's  tail  to  catch 
him)  occupies  but  half  a  page,  Avhich  is  followed  by  very 
fine  Avriting  on  the  benefits  he  conjectures  Avould  folloAV  if 
it  Avere  done  ;  very  excellent  thoughts  on  death,  and  our 
feelings  concerning  dead  friends,  and  the  advantages  an 
old  country  has  over  a  noAv  one,  even  in  the  slender  me- 
morials Ave  have  of  great  men  who  once  flourished. 

"  Charles  is  come  home  and  wants  his   dinner,  and  so 
the  dead  men  must  be  no  more   thought  of.     Tell  us  hoAV 
you  go  on,  and  hoAV  you  like  WintcrsloAV  and  winter  even 
11* 


126  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

ings.  Kiiowlcs  lias  not  yet  got  back  again,  but  he  is  In 
better  spirits.  John  Hazlitt  was  here  on  Wednesday. 
Our  love  to  Hazlitt, 

"Yours,  affectionately,         M.  Lamb." 

"  Saturday." 

To  this  letter  Charles  added  the  following  postscript : — 

"  There  came  this  morning  a  printed  prospectus  from 
'■  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Grasraerc,'  of  a  Aveeldy  paper,  to  be 
called  *Thc  Friend ;'  aflaming  prospectus.  I  have  no  time 
to  give  the  heads  of  it.  To  commence  first  Saturday  in 
January.  There  came  also  notice  of  a  turkey  from  Mr. 
Clarkson,  -which  I  am  more  sanguine  in  expecting  the 
accomplishment  of  than  I  am  of  Coleridge's  prophecy. 

"CLamc." 

During  the  next  year  Lamb  and  his  sister  produced 
their  charming  little  book  of  "  Poetry  for  Children,"  and 
removed  from  Mitre  Court  to  those  rooms  in  Inner  Tem- 
ple Lane — most  dear  of  all  their  abodes  to  the  memory  of 
their  ancient  friends — Avhcrc  first  I  knew  them.  The 
change  produced  its  natural  and  sad  effect  on  Miss  Lamb, 
during  Avhose  absence  Lamb  addressed  the  following  vari- 
ous letter. 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"June  Tth,  1S09. 

"  Dear  Coleridge. — I  congratulate  you  c:a  the  appear- 
ance of  '  The  Friend.'  Your  first  number  promises  wel), 
and  I  have  no  doubt  the  succeeding  numbers  Avill  fulfil  the 
promise.  I  had  a  kind  letter  from  you  some  time  since, 
which  I  have  left  unanswered.     I  am  also  obliged  to  you. 


LETTERS    TO   COLERIDGE.  127 

I  believe,  for  a  Revie^v  in  the  Annual,  am  I  not?  The 
Monthly  Review  sneers  at  me,  and  asks  '  if  Comus  is  not 
good  enoiigli  for  ]Mr.  Lamb  V  because  I  have  said  no  good 
serious  dramas  have  been  written  since  the  death  of 
Charles  the  First,  except '  Sampson  Agonistes ;'  so  because 
they  do  not  know,  or  won't  remember,  that  Comus  was 
written  long  before,  I  am  to  be  set  down  as  an  undervaluer 
of  Milton.  0,  Coleridge  !  do  kill  those  reviews,  or  they 
Avill  kill  us  ;  kill  all  we  like  !  Be  a  friend  to  all  else,  but 
their  foe.  I  have  been  turned  out  of  my  chambers  in  the 
Temple  by  a  landlord  who  wanted  them  for  himself,  but  I 
have  got  other  at  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  far  more 
commodious  and  roomy.  I  have  two  rooms  on  third  floor 
and  five  rooms  above,  with  an  inner  staircase  to  myself, 
and  all  new  painted,  &c.,  and  all  for  30/.  a  year  !  I  came 
into  them  on  Saturday  week ;  and  on  Monday  following, 
Mary  was  taken  ill  with  fatigue  of  moving,  and  affected,  I 
believe,  by  the  novelty  of  the  home  she  could  not  sleep, 
and  I  am  left  alone  with  a  maid  quite  a  stranger  to  me, 
and  she  has  a  month  or  two's  sad  distraction  to  go  through. 
"What  sad  large  pieces  it  cuts  out  of  life ;  out  of  her  life, 
who  is  getting  rather  old ;  and  we  may  not  have  many 
years  to  live  together  !  I  am  weaker,  and  bear  it  worse 
than  I  ever  did.  But  I  hope  we  shall  be  comfortable  by 
and  bye.  The  rooms  arc  delicious,  and  the  best  look 
backwards  into  Hare  Court,  where  there  is  a  pump  always 
going.  Just  now  it  is  dry.  Ilare  Court  trees  come  in  at 
the  window,  so  that  it's  like  living  in  a  garden.  I  try  to 
persuade  myself  it  is  much  pleasanter  than  Mitre  Court ; 
but,  alas !  the  household  gods  are  slow  to  come  in  a  new 
mauoion.  They  are  in  their  infancy  to  me ;  I  do  not  feel 
them  yet ;  no  hearth  has  blazed  to  tliem  yet.  How  I  hate 
and  dread  new  places  ! 


128  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  see  Wordsworth's  book  advertised ; 
I  am  to  have  it  to-morrow  lent  me,  and  if  Wordsworth 
don't  send  me  an  order  for  one  upon  Longman,  I 
will  buy  it.  It  is  greatly  extolled  and  liked  by  all  who 
have  seen  it.  Let  me  hear  from  some  of  you,  for  I  am 
desolate.  I  shall  have  to  send  you  in  a  Aveek  or  two,  two 
volumes  of  Juvenik  Poetry,  done  by  Mary  and  me  within 
the  last  six  months,  and  that  tale  in  prose  which  Words- 
worth so  much  liked,  which  was  published  at  Christmas, 
with  nine  others,  by  us,  and  has  reached  a  second  edition. 
There's  for  you  !  We  have  almost  worked  ourselves  out 
of  child's  work,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Sometimes 
I  think  of  a  drama,  but  I  have  no  head  for  play-making  ; 
I  can  do  the  dialogue,  and  that's  all.  I  am  quite  aground 
for  a  plan,  and  I  must  do  something  for  money.  Not  that 
I  have  immediate  wants,  but  I  have  prospective  ones.  0 
money,  money,  hoAv  blindly  thou  hast  been  Avorshipped, 
and  hoAV  stupidly  abused  !  Thou  art  health  and  liberty, 
and  strength,  and  he  that  has  thee  may  rattle  his  pockets 
at  the  fould  fiend  ! 

"  Nevertheless,  do  not  understand  by  this  that  I  haA'e 
not  quite  enough  for  my  occasions  for  a  year  or  tAvo  to 
come.  While  I  think  on  it,  Coleridge,  I  fetch'd  away  my 
books  which  you  had  at  the  Courier  Office,  and  found  all 
but  a  third  volume  of  the  old  plays,  containing  '  The  White 
DeAdl,'  Green's  '  Tu  Quoque,'  and  the  '  Honest  Whore,' 
perhaps  the  most  A'aluable  volume  of  them  all — tliat  I 
could  not  find.  Pray,  if  you  can,  remember  Avhat  you  did 
with  it,  or  where  you  took  it  out  Avith  you  a  walking  per- 
haps; send  me  word,  for  to  use  the  old  plea,  it  spoils  a 
set.  I  found  tAvo  other  volumes  (you  had  three),  the 
'  Arcadia,'  and  Daniel,  enriched  with  manuscript  notes. 
I  Avish    every  book  I  have  Avere    so  noted.     They  have 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  129 

tlioroiiglily  converted  mc  to  rclisli  Daniel,  or  to  say 
I  relish  him,  for  after  all,  I  believe  I  did  relish 
him.  You  will  call  him  sober-minded.  Your  notes 
are  excellent.  Perhaps  you've  forgot  them.  I  have  read 
a  review  in  the  Quarterly,  by  Southey,  on  the  Mission- 
aries, which  is  most  masterly.  I  only  grudge  it  being 
there.  It  is  quite  beautiful.  Do  remember  my  Dodsley  ; 
and,  pray,  do  Avrite,  or  let  some  of  you  write.  Clarkson 
tells  me  you  are  in  a  smoky  house.  Have  you  cured  it  ? 
It  is  hard  to  cure  anything  of  smoking.  Our  little  poems 
are  but  humble,  but  they  have  no  name.  You  must  read 
them,  remembering  they  vrere  task-work ;  and  perhaps 
you  will  admire  the  number  of  subjects,  all  of  children, 
picked  out  by  an  old  Bachelor  and  an  old  Maid.  Many 
parents  would  not  have  found  so  many.  Have  you  read 
'  Coelebs  ?'  It  has  reached  eight  editions  in  so  many 
Aveeks,  yet  literally  it  is  one  of  the  very  poorest  sort  of 
common  novels,  with  the  draAV-back  of  dull  religion  in  it. 
Had  the  religion  been  high  and  flavored,  it  would  have 
been  something.  I  borrowed  this  '  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a 
"Wife,'  of  a  very  careful,  neat  lady,  and  returned  it  with 
this  stuff  written  in  the  beginning  : — 

'If  ever  I  marry  a  wife 

I'd  marry  a  landlord's  daughter, 
For  then  I  may  sit  in  the  bar, 

And  drink  cold  brnndy-and  water.' 

"  I  don't  expect  you  can  find  time  from  your  '  Friend' 
to  Avrite  to  me  much,  but  write  something,  for  there  has 
been  a  long  silence.  You  knoAV  Ilolcroft  is  dead.  God- 
win is  well.  He  has  Avritten  a  very  pretty,  absurd  book 
about  sepulchres.  He  was  affronted  because  I  told  him 
it  was  better  than  Hervey,  but  not  so  good  as  Sir  '1\ 
Browne.     This  letter  is.  all  about  books ;  but  my  head 


130  LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE. 

aclies,  and  I  liardly  know  what  I  write  :  but  I  could  not 
let  '  The  Friend'  pass  without  a  congratulatory  epistle.  I 
won't  criticise  till  it  comes  to  a  volume.  Tell  me  how  I 
shall  send  my  packet  to  3'ou  ? — by  Avhat  conveyance  ? — by 
Longman,  Short-man,  or  how  ?  Give  my  kindest  remem- 
brances to  the  Wordsworths.  Tell  him  he  must  give  me 
a  book.  My  kind  love  to  Mrs.  W.  and  to  Dorothy  sepa- 
rately and  conjointly.  I  wish  you  could  all  tome  and  see 
me  in  my  new  rooms.     God  bless  you  all.  C.  L." 

A  journey  into  Wiltshire,  to  visit  Hazlitt,  followed  Miss 
Lamb's  recovery,  and  produced  the  following  letters  : — 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"Monday,  Oct.  30th,  1S09. 

"  Dear  Coleridge. — I  have  but  this  moment  received 
your  letter,  dated  the  9th  instant,  having  just  come  off  a 
journey  from  Wiltshire,  where  I  have  been  with  Mary  on 
a  visit  to  Hazlitt.  The  journey  has  been  of  infinite  ser- 
vice to  her.  We  have  had  nothing  but  sunshiny  days, 
and  daily  walks  from  eight  to  twenty  miles  a  day ;  have 
seen  Wilton,  Salisbury,  Stonehenge,  &c.  Her  illness 
lasted  but  six  weeks ;  it  left  her  weak,  but  the  country 
has  made  us  whole.  We  came  back  to  our  Hoo;arth 
Room.  I  have  made  several  acquisitions  since  you  saw 
them — and  found  Nos.  8,  9,  10,  of  The  Friend.  The 
account  of  Luther  in  the  Warteburg  is  as  fine  as  anything 
I  ever  read.*     God  forbid  that  a  man  who  has  such  things 

*  The  Warteburg  is  a  Castle,  standing  on  a  lofty  rock,  about  two  miles 
from  the  city  of  Eisenach,  in  which  Luther  vras  confined,  under  the  friendly 
arrest  of  the  Elector  of  Saxony,  after  Charles  V.  had  pronounced  against  him 
the  Ran  in  the  Imperial  Diet;  where  he  composed  some  of  his  greatest  works, 
and  translated  the  New  Testament ;  and  where  he  is  recorded  as  engaged 
in  the  personal  conflict  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  of  which  the  vestiges 
are  still  shown  in  a  black  stain  on  the  wall,  from  the  inkstand  hurled  at  the 


LETTERS    TO    COLERIDGE.  131 

to  say  sliould  be  silenced  for  want  of  100/.  This  Custom- 
and-Duty-Age  would  have  made  the  Preacher  on  the 
Mount  take  out  a  license,  and  St.  Paul's  Epistles  not 
missible  -without  a  stamp.  0  that  you  may  find  means  to 
go  on  !  But  alas  !  where  is  Sir  G.  Beaumont  ? — Sotheby  ? 
What  is  become  of  the  rich  Auditors  in  Albemarle  Street? 
Your  letter  has  saddened  me. 


Euemy.  In  the  Essaj'  referred  to,  Coleridge  accounts  for  the  story — depict- 
ing the  state  of  the  great  prisoner's  mind  in  most  vivid  colors — and  then  pre- 
senting the  following  picture,  which  so  nobly  justifies  Lamb's  eulogy,  that  I 
venture  to  gratify  myself  by  inserting  it  here. 

"  Methinks  I  see  him  sitting,  the  heroic  student,  in  his  chamber  in  tho 
Warteburg,  with  his  midnight  lamp  before  him,  seen  by  the  late  traveller  in 
the  distant  plain  of  Bischofsroda,  as  a  star  on  the  mountain  !  Below  it  lies  the 
Hebrew  Bible  open,  on  which  he  gazes  j  his  brow  pressing  on  his  palm,  brood- 
ing over  some  obscure  text,  which  he  desires  to  make  plain  to  the  simple  boor 
and  to  the  humble  artizan,  and  to  transfer  its  whole  force  into  their  own  natu- 
ral and  living  tongue.  And  he  himself  does  not  understand  it!  Thick  dark- 
ness lies  on  the  original  text;  he  counts  the  letters,  he  calls  up  the  roots  of 
each  separate  word,  and  questions  them  as  the  familiar  Spirits  of  an  Oracle. 
In  vain;  thick  darkness  continues  to  cover  it;  not  a  ray  of  meaning  dawns 
through  it.  With  sullen  and  angry  hope  he  reaches  for  the  Vulgate,  his  old 
and  sworn  enemy,  the  treacherous  confederate  of  the  Roman  Antichrist,  which 
he  so  gladly,  when  ho  can,  rebukes  for  idolatrous  falsehood,  that  had  dared 
place 

'  Within  the  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations — ' 

Now — 0  thought  of  humiliation — he  must  entreat  its  aid.  See  !  there  has  tho 
sly  spirit  of  apostacy  worked  in  a  phrase,  which  favors  the  doctrine  of  purga- 
tory, the  intercession  of  saints,  or  the  efficacy  of  prayers  for  the  dead ;  and, 
what  is  worst  of  all,  the  interpretation  is  plausible.  The  original  Hebrew 
might  be  forced  into  this  meaning :  and  no  other  meaning  seems  to  lie  in  it, 
none  to  hover  above  it  in  the  heights  of  allegory,  none  to  lurk  beneath  it  even 
in  the  depths  of  Cabala!  This  is  the  work  of  the  Tempter;  it  is  a  cloud  of 
darkness  conjured  up  between  the  truth  of  the  sacred  letters  and  the  eyes  of 
his  understanding,  by  the  malice  of  the  evil-one,  and  for  a  trial  of  his  faith ! 
Must  ho  then  at  length  confess,  must  he  subscribe  the  name  of  Lutheh  to  an 
exposition  which  consecrates  a  weapon  for  the  hand  of  tno  idolatrouy  Hier 
^Tchj  ?     Never  I     Never  ! 


132  LETTERS   TO    COLERIDGE. 

"  I  am  so  tired  with  my  journey,  being  up  all  night,  I 
have  neither  things  nor  words  in  my  power.  I  believe  I 
expressed  my  admiration  of  the  pamphlet.  Its  poAver  over 
me  was  like  that  which  Milton's  pamphlets  must  have  had 
on  his  contemporaries,  who  were  tuned  to  them.  What  a 
piece  of  prose  !  Do  you  hear  if  it  is  read  at  all  ?  I  am  out 
of  the  world  of  readers.  I  hate  all  that  do  read,  for  they  read 


"  There  still  remains  one  auxiliary  in  reserve,  the  translation  of  the  Seventy. 
The  Alexandrine  Greeks,  anterior  to  the  Church  itself,  could  intend  no  sup- 
port to  its  corruptions — The  Septuagint  will  have  profimed  the  Altar  of  Truth 
with  no  incense  for  the  nostrils  of  the  universal  Bishop  to  snuff  up.  And  here 
again  his  hopes  are  baffled  !  Exactly  at  this  perplexed  passage  had  the 
Greek  translator  given  his  understanding  a  holiday,  and  made  his  pen  supply 
its  place.  0  honored  Luther !  as  easily  mightest  thou  convert  the  whole 
City  of  Rome,  with  the  Pope  and  the  conclave  of  Cardinals,  inclusively,  as 
strike  a  spark  of  light  from  the  words,  and  nothing  hut  words,  of  the  Alexan- 
drine version.  Disappointed,  despondent,  enraged,  ceasing  to  lliinlc,  yet  con- 
tinuing his  brain  on  the  stretch  in  solicitation  of  a  thought;  and  gradually 
giving  himself  up  to  angry  fancies,  to  recollections  of  past  persecutions,  to 
uneasy  fears,  and  inward  defiances,  and  floating  images  of  the  Evil  Being, 
their  supposed  personal  author;  he  sinks,  without  perceiving  it,  into  a  trance 
of  slumber;  during  which  his  brain  retains  its  waking  energies,  excepting 
that  what  would  have  been  mere  thoughts  before,  now  (the  action  and  coun- 
terweight of  his  senses  and  of  their  impressions  being  withdrawn)  shape  and 
condense  themselves  into  things,  into  realities  !  Repeatedly  half-wakening, 
and  his  eye-lids  as  often  reclosing,  the  objects  which  really  surround  him 
form  the  place  and  scenery  of  his  dream.  All  at  once  he  sees  tho  arch-fiend 
coming  forth  on  the  wall  of  the  room,  from  the  very  spot,  perhaps,  on  which 
his  eyes  had  been  fixed,  vacantlj',  during  the  perplexed  moments  of  his  for- 
mer meditation :  the  inkstand  which  he  had  at  the  same  time  been  using, 
becomes  associated  with  it;  and  in  that  struggle  of  rage,  which  in  those  dis- 
tempered dreams  almost  constantly  precedes  the  helpless  terror  by  the  pain 
of  which  we  are  finally  awakened,  he  imagines  that  he  hurls  it  at  the  intruder, 
or  not  improbably  in  the  first  instant  of  awakening,  while  yet  both  his  imagi= 
nation  and  his  eyes  are  possessed  by  the  dream,  he  actually  hurls  it.  Some 
weeks  after,  perhaps,  during  which  interval  he  had  often  mused  on  the  inci- 
dent, undetermined  whether  to  deem  it  a  visitation  of  Satan  to  him  in  the 
body  or  out  of  the  body,  he  discovers  for  the  first  time  the  dark  spot  on  hia 
wall,  and  receives  it  as  a  sign  and  pledge  vouchsafed  tc  him  of  the  event  hav- 
ing actually  taken  place." 


MISS    LAMB    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT.  13S 

notliing  but  reviews  and  new  books.     I  gather  mjse'if  up 
unto  the  old  things. 

"  I  have  put  up  shelves.  You  never  saw  a  book-case 
in  more  true  harmony  with  the  contents,  than  what  I've 
nailed  up  in  a  room,  which,  though  ncAV,  has  more  ayiti- 
tudes  for  growing  old  than  you  shall  often  see — as  one 
sometimes  gets  a  friend  in  the  middle  of  life,  who  becomes 
an  old  friend  in  a  short  time.  My  rooms  are  luxurious; 
one  is  for  prints  and  one  for  books ;  a  summer  and  a 
•winter  parlor.     "When  shall  I  ever  see  you  in  them  ? 

"C.  L." 


MISS  LAMB  TO  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

"November  7tli,  1809. 

"  My  dear  Sarali. — The  dear,  quiet,  lazy,  delicious 
month  we  spent  with  you  is  remembered  by  me  with  such 
regret  that  I  feel  quite  discontented  and  Winterslow-sick. 
I  assure  you  I  never  passed  such  a  pleasant  time  in  the 
country  in  my  life,  both  in  the  house  and  out  of  it — the 
card-playing  quarrels,  and  a  few  gaspings  for  breath,  after 
your  swift  footsteps  up  the  high  hills,  excepted  ;  and  those 
draw-backs  are  not  unpleasant  in  the  recollection.  We 
have  got  some  salt  butter,  to  make  our  toast  seem  like 
yours,  and  we  have  tried  to  eat  meat  suppers,  but  that 
would  not  do,  for  we  left  our  appetites  behind  us,  and  the 
dry  loaf,  which  offended  you,  now  comes  in  at  night  un- 
accompanied; but,  sorry  am  I  to  add,  it  is  soon  followed 
by  the  pipe.  We  smoked  the  very  first  night  of  our  ar- 
rival. 

'•  Great  news  I  I  have  just  been  interrupted  by  Mr. 
Daw,  who  came  to  tell  me  he  was  elected  a  Royal  Acade- 
mician. He  said  none  of  his  own  friends  voted  for  him, 
12 


134  MISS    LAMB    TO    MRS.  HAZLITT. 

he  got  it  by  strangers,  who  were  pleased  Avith  his  picture 
of  Mrs.  White. 

"  Charles  says  he  does  not  believe  Northcote  ever  voted 
for  the  admission  of  any  one.  Though  a  very  cold  day, 
Daw  was  in  a  prodigious  perspiration,  for  joy  at  his  good 
fortune. 

"  More  great  news !  My  beautiful  green  curtains  were 
put  up  yesterday,  and  all  the  doors  listed  with  green  baize, 
and  four  new  boards  put  to  the  coal-hole,  and  fastening  hasps 
put  to  the  windows,  and  my  dyed  Manning-silk  cut  out. 

"  We  had  a  good  cheerful  meeting  on  Wednesday, 
much  talk  of  Winterslow,  its  woods  and  its  sun-flowers.    I 

did  not  so  much  like  P at  Winterslow  as  I  noAV  like 

him  for  having  been  with  us  at  Winterslow.  We  roasted 
the  last  of  his  '  Beech  of  oily  nut  prolific'  on  Friday  at  the 
Captain's.  Nurse  is  now  established  in  Paradise,  alias 
the  incurable  ward  of  Westminster  Hospital.  I  have 
seen  her  sitting  in  most  superb  state,  surrounded  by  her 
seven  incurable  companions.  They  call  each  other  ladies; 
nurse  looks  as  if  she  would  be  considered  as  the  first  lady 
in  the  ward ;  only  one  seemed  at  all  likely  to  rival  her  in 
dignity. 

"  A  man  in  the  India  House  has  resigned,  by  which 
Charles  will  get  twenty  pounds  a  year,  and  White  has 
prevailed  on  him  to  write  some  more  lottery  puffs  ;  if  that 
ends  in  smoke  the  twenty  pounds  is  a  sure  card,  and  has 
made  us  very  joyful. 

"I  continue  very  Avell,  and  return  you  very  sincere 
thanks  for  my  good  health  and  improved  looks,  which  have 

almost  made   Mrs.  die  with    envy.      She    longs    to 

come  to  Winterslow  as  much  as  the  spiteful  elder  sister 
did  to  go  to  the  well  for  a  gift  to  spit  diamonds. 

"  Jane  and  I  have  agreed  to  boil  a  round  of  beef  for 


LETTER    TO    HAZLITT.  135 

your  supi^ors  when  j-ou  come  to  town  again.  She  (Jane) 
broke  two  of  the  Hogarth  ghasses,  while  we  were  away, 
whereat  I  made  a  great  noise.  Farewclh  Love  to  AVil- 
liam,  and  Charles's  love  and  good  wishes  for  the  speedy 
arrival  of  the  'Life  of  Holcroft,'  and  the  bearer  thereof. 
"Yours,  most  afiectionately,  M.  Lamb. 

"  Tuesday. 

"  Cliarles  told  Mrs. ,  Hazlitt  Lad  found  a  well  in 

bis  garden,  •which,  water  being  scarce  in  your  county, 
would  bring  him  in  two  hundred  a  year;  and  she  came  in 
great  haste,  the  next  morning,  to  ask  me  if  it  were  true. 

"  Your  brother  and  sister  are  quite  well." 

The  country  excursions,  with  which  Lamb  sometimes 
occupied  his  "weeks  of  vacation,  were  taken  with  fear  and 
trembling — often  foregone — and  finally  given  up,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  sad  effects  which  the  excitement  of  travel 
and  change  produced  in  his  beloved  companion.  The  fol- 
lowing refers  to  one  of  these  disasters : — 

TO  MR.    HAZLITT. 

"August  9th,  1810. 

"  Dear  H. — Epistemon  is  not  well.  Our  pleasant  ex- 
cursion has  ended  sadly  for  one  of  us.  You  will  guess  I 
mean  my  sister.  She  got  home  very  well  (I  Avas  very  ill 
on  the  journey),  and  continued  so  till  Monday  night,  when 
her  complaint  came  on,  and  she  is  now  absent  from  home. 

'•  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  all  well.  I  think  I  shall  be 
mad  if  I  take  any  more  journeys  with  two  experiences 
against  it.  I  find  all  well  here.  Kind  remembrances  to 
Sarah — have  you  just  got  her  letter. 

"H.  Robinson  has  been  to  Blenheim,  he  says  you  will  be 
■sorry  to  hear  that  we  should  not  have  asked  for  the  Titian 


136  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH 

Gallery  there.  One  of  his  friends  knew  of  it,  and  asked 
to  see  it.  It  is  never  shown  but  to  those  who  inquire 
for  it. 

"The  pictures  are  all  Titians,  Jupiter  and  Lcdas,  Mars 
and  Venuses,  &c.,  all  naked  pictures,  which  may  be  a 
reason  they  don't  show  it  to  females.  But  he  says  they 
are  very  fine  ;  and  perhaps  it  is  shown  separately  to  put 
another  fee  into  the  shower's  pocket.  AVell,  I  shall  never 
see  it. 

"  I  have  lost  all  wish  for  sights.  God  blesa  you. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  London. 

"  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb. 

"  Tliursdcnj." 

Mr.  Wordsworth's  Essay  on  Epitaphs,  afterwards  ap 
pended   to    "  The    Excursion,"    produced   the   following 
letter : — 

TO  MR.  WORDSAVORTH. 

"Friday,  19tli  Get.  ISIO. 

"  Dear  W. — Mary  has  been  very  ill,  which  you  have 
heard,  I  suppose,  from  the  Montagues.  She  is  very  weak 
and  low  spirited  now.  I  was  much  pleased  with  your  con- 
tinuation of  the  Essay  on  Epitaphs.  It  is  the  only  sensi- 
ble thing  which  has  been  written  on  that  subject,  and  it 
goes  to  the  bottom.  In  particular  I  was  pleased  with 
your  translation  of  that  turgid  epitaph  into  the  plain  feel- 
ing under  it.  It  is  perfectly  a  test.  But  what  is  the 
reason  we  have  no  good  epitaphs  after  all? 

"Avery  striking  instance  of  your  position  might  be 
found  in  the  churchyard  of  Ditton-upon-Thames,  if  you 
know  such  a  place.  Ditton-upon-Thames  has  been  blessed 
by  the  residence  of  a  poet,  who,  for  love  or  money,  I  do 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  137 

not  well  know  which,  has  dignified  every  grave-stone,  for 
the  last  few  years,  with  bran-new  verses,  all  different,  and 
all  ingenious,  Avith  the  author's  name  at  the  bottom  of 
each.  Tliis  sweet  Swan  of  Thames  has  artfully  diver- 
s  fied  Lis  strains  and  his  rhymes,  that  the  same  thought 
never  occurs  twice  ;  more  justly,  perhaps,  as  no  thought 
ever  occurs  at  all,  there  was  a  physical  impossibility  that 
the  same  thouiiht  should  recur.  It  is  long  since  I  s;iw 
and  read  these  inscriptions,  but  I  remember  the  impres- 
sion was  of  a  smug  usher  at  his  desk  in  the  intervals  of 
instruction,  levelling  his  pen.  Of  death,  as  it  consists  of 
dust  and  worms,  and  mourners  and  uncertainty,  he  had 
never  thought ;  but  the  word  '  death'  he  had  often  seen 
separate  and  conjunct  with  other  words,  till  he  had  learned 
to  speak  of  all  its  attributes  as  glibly  as  Unitarian  Belsham 
will  discuss  you  the  attributes  of  the  word  '  God'  in  a  pulpit ; 
and  will  talk  of  infinity  Avith  a  tonirue  that  dangles  from  a 
skull  that  never  reached  in  thought  and  thorough  imagina- 
tion two  inches,  or  further  than  from  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  or  from  the  vestry  to  the  sounding-board  of  the 
pulpit. 

"  But  the  epitaphs  were  trim,  and  sprag,  and  patent, 
and  pleased  the  survivors  of  Thames  Ditton  above  the  old 
mumpsimusof  Afflictions  Sore.'  ....  To  do  justice  though, 
it  must  be  owned  that  even  the  excellent  feeling  Avhich  dic- 
tated this  dirge  when  new,  must  have  suffered  something 
in  passing  through  so  many  thousand  applications,  many 
of  them  no  doubt  quite  misplaced,  as  I  have  seen  in  Isling- 
t  )n  churchyard  (I  think)  an  Epitaph  to  an  infant,  who  died 
*■  x^tatis  four  months,'  with  this  seasonable  inscription  ap- 
pended, '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother ;  that  thy  days 
may  be  long  in  the  land,'  &c.  Sincerely  wishing  your 
children  long  life  to  honor,  &c.  I  remain,     C.  Lamb.  " 

12* 


CHAPTER  Vr. 

LETTEHS  TO  WORDSWORTH,  ETC.,  CHIEFLY  RESPECTINK  WORDSWORTH's  POEMS 

[1S15  to  1S18.] 

The  admirers  of  "Wordsworth — few,  but  energetic  and 
hopeful — were  delighted,  and  his  opponents  excited  to  the 
expression  of  their  utmost  spleen,  bj  the  appearance,  in 
1814,  of  •'  The  Excursion,"  (in  the  quarto  form  marked 
by  the  bitter  flippancy  of  Lord  Byron) ;  and  by  the  publi- 
cation, in  1815,  of  two  volumes  of  Poems,  some  of  which 
only  were  new.  The  following  letters  are  chiefly  expressive 
of  Lamb's  feelings  respecting  these  remarkable  works,  and 
the  treatment  which  his  own  Review  of  the  latter  received 
from  Mr.  Gifi"ord,  then  the  Editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review, 
for  which  it  was  written.  The  following  letter  is  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  an  early  copy  of  "  The  Excursion." 


TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"ISH. 

"Dear  Wordsworth. — I  cannot  tell  you  how  pleased  I 

was  at  the  receipt  of  the  great  armful  of  poetry  which 

you  have  sent  me  ;  and  to  get  it  before  the  rest  of  the 

world  too  !     I  have  gone  quite  through  with  it,  and  was 

thinking    to   have    accomplished    that    pleasure  a  second 

time  before  I  wrote  to  thank  you,  but  1\L  B.  came  in  the 

night  (while  we  were  out)  and  made  holy  theft  of  it,  but 

we  expect  restitution  in  a  day  or  two.     It  is  the  noblest 

conversational  poem  I  ever  read — a  day  in  Heaven.     The 

part  (or  rather  main  body)  which  has  left  the  sweetest  odour 
(i;i8) 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  139 

on  my  memory  (a  bad  term  for  the  remains  of  an  in.pression 
so  recent)  is  the  Tales  of  the  Church-yard ; — the  only 
girl  among  seven  brethren,  born  out  of  due  time,  and  not 
duly  taken  away  again ; — the  deaf  man  and  the  blind 
man ; — the  Jacobite  and  the  Hanoverian,  whom  antipa- 
thies reconcile  the  Scarron-entry  of  the  rusticating  parson 
upon  his  solitude ; — these  were  all  new  to  me  too.  My 
having  known  the  story  of  Margaret  (at  the  beginning),  a 
very  old  acquaintance,  even  as  long  back  as  when  I  saw 
you  first  at  Stowey,  did  not  make  her  reappearance  less 
fresh.  I  don't  know  what  to  pick  out  of  this  best  of 
books  upon  the  best  subjects  for  partial  naming.  That 
gorgeous  sunset  is  famous;*  I  think  it  must  have  been  the 
identical  one  Ave  saw  on    Salisbury  Plain  five  years  ago, 

that  drew  P from  the  card-table,  where  he  had  sat 

from  rise  of  that  luminary  to  its  unequalled  setting ;  but 
neither  ho  nor  I  had  gifted  eyes  to  see  those  symbols  of 
common  things  glorified,  such  as  the  prophets  saAV  them 
in  that  sunset — the  wheel,  the  potter's  clay,  the  Avashpot, 
the  Avine-press,  the  almond-tree  rod,  the  baskets  of  figs, 
the  four-fold  visaged  head,  the  throne,  and  Him  that  sat 
thereon. f 

I  "  One  feeling  I  Avas  particularly  struck  Avith,  as  Avhat  I 
recognised  so  very  lately  at  HarroAv  Church  on  entering  in 
it  after  a  hot  and  secular  day's  pleasure,  the  instantaneous 
coolness  and  calming,  almost  transforming  properties  of  a 

*  Tlio  pnssnge  to  wbic-h  tlio  allusion  applies  does  not  picture  a  sunset,  but 
the  cfl'oet  of  sunliglit  on  a  receding  mist  among  tlie  mountains,  in  Ibe  seconj 
V)o/)k  of  "The  Excursion." 

-j-  "  Fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 

To  iuiplements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision — forms  inicouth  of  niighliest  powers, 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe." 


140  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

country  cliurcli  just  entered  ;  a  certain  fragrance  which  it 
has,  either  from  its  holiness,  or  being  kept  shut  all  the 
week,  or  the  air  that  is  let  in  being  pure  country,  exactly 
what  you  have  reduced  into  words — but  I  am  feeling  that 
which  I  cannot  express.  The  reading  your  lines  about  it 
fixed  me  for  a  time,  a  monument  in  Harrow  Church ;  do 
you  know  it?  with  its  fine  long  spire,  white  as  washed 
marble,  to  be  seen,  by  vantage  of  its  high  site,  as  far  as 
Salisbury  spire  itself  almost. 

"  I  shall  select  a  day  or  two,  very  shortly,  when  I  am 
coolest  in  brain,  to  have  a  steady  second  reading,  which  I 
feel  will  lead  to  many  more,  for  it  will  be  a  stock  book 
with  me  while  eyes  or  spectacles  shall  be  lent  me.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  noble  m.atter  about  mountain  scenery, 
yet  not  so  much  as  to  overpower  and  discountenance  a  poor 
Londoner  or  south-countryman  entirely,  though  Mary  seems 
to  have  felt  it  occasionally  a  little  too  powerfully,  for  it 
was  her  rema'rk  during  reading  it,  that  by  your  system  it 
was  doubtful  whether  a  liver  in  towns  had  a  soul  to  be  saved. 
She  almost  trembled  for  that  invisible  part  of  us  in  her. 

"  Save  for  a  late  excursion  to  Harrow,  and  a  day  or 
two  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  this  summer,  rural  images 
were  fast  fading  from  my  mind,  and  by  the  wise  provision 
of  the  Regent,  all  that  was  country-fy'd  in  the  Parks  is 
all  but  obliterated.  The  very  color  of  green  is  vanished ; 
the  whole  surface  of  Hyde  Park  is  dry  crumbling  sand 
(Arabia  Arenosa),  not  a  vestige  or  hint  of  grass  ever  hav- 
ing grown  there;  booths  and  drinking-places  go  a-i  round 
it  for  a  mile  and  half,  I  am  confident — I  might  say  two 
miles  in  circuit — the  stench  of  liquors,  had  tobacco,  dirty 
people  and  provisions,  conquers  the  air,  and  we  are  stifled 
and  suffocated  in  Hyde  Park." 

Earn!)  was  delighted  with  the  proposition,  made  through 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWOETII.  141 

Soiithey,  that  he  should  review  "  The  Excursion"  in  the 
'■'•  Quarterly" — though  he  had  never  before  attempted  con- 
temporaneous criticism,  and  cherished  a  dislike  to  it,  Avhich 
the  event  did  not  diminish.  The  ensuing  letter  was  ad- 
dressed Avhile  meditating  on  his  office,  and  uneasy  least 
he  shouhl  lose  it  for  Avant  of  leisure. 


TO  MR.  AVORDSWORTH. 

"1814. 

"  My  dear  W. — I  have  scarce  time  or  quiet  to  explain 
my  present  situation,  hoAV  unquiet  and  distracted  it  is, 
OAving  to  the  absence  of  some  of  my  compeers,  and  to  the 
deficient  state  of  payments  at  E.  I.  II.,  OAving  to  bad 
peace  speculations  in  the  calico  market.  (I  write  this  to 
W.  W".,  Esq.,  Collector  of  Stamp  Duties  for  the  conjoint 
Northern  Counties,  not  to  W.  W.,  Poet.)  I  go  back,  and 
have  for  these  many  days  past,  to  evening  work,  generally 
at  the  rate  of  nine  hours  a  day.  The  nature  of  my  work, 
too,  puzzling  and  hurrying,  has  so  shaken  my  spirits  that 
my  sleep  is  nothing  but  a  succession  of  dreams  of  business 
I  cannot  do,  of.  assistants  that  give  me  no  assistance,  of 
terrible  responsibilities.  I  reclaimed  your  book,  which 
Hazlitt  has  unciA'illy  kept,  only  tAvo  days  ago,  and  have 
made  shift  to  read  it  again  Avith  shattered  brain.  It  does 
not  lose — rather  some  parts  have  come  out  Avitli  a  promi- 
nence I  did  not  perceive  before — but  such  Avas  my  aching 
liead  yesterday  (Sunday),  that  the  book  Avas  like  a  moun- 
tain landscape  to  one  that  should  Avalk  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice ;  I  perceived  beauty  dizzily.  Noav,  Avhat  I 
Avould  say  is,  that  I  see  no  prospect  of  a  quiet  half-day,  or 
hour  even,  till  this  Avcek  and  the  next  are  past.  I  tlicii 
hope  to  get  four  Aveeks'  absence,  and  if  the7i  is  time 
enough  to  begin,  I  will  most  gladly  do  Avhat  is  required, 


142  LETTERS   TO   AVORDSAYORTH. 

tliougli  I  feel  my  inability,  for  my  brain  is  always  desul- 
tory, and  snatches  off  hints  from  things,  but  can  seldom 
follow  a  '  work'  methodically.  But  that  shall  be  no  ex- 
cuse. What  I  beg  you  to  do,  is,  to  let  me  tnow  from 
Southey,  if  that  will  be  time  enough  for  the  '  Quarterly,' 
i.  c,  suppose  it  done  in  three  weeks  from  this  date  (19th 
Sept.) :  if  not,  it  is  my  bounden  duty  to  express  my  re- 
gret, and  decline  it.  Mary  thanks  you,  and  feels  highly 
grateful  for  your  'Patent  of  Nobility,'  and  acknowledges 
the  author  of  'The  Excursion'  as  the  legitimate  Fountain 
of  Honor.  We  both  agree,  that  to  our  feeling,  Ellen  is 
best  as  she  is.  To  us  there  would  have  been  something 
repugnant  in  her  challenging  her  Penance  as  a  Dowry; 
the  fact  is  explicable,  but  how  few  are  those  to  whom  it 
would  have  been  rendered  explicit.  The  unlucky  reason 
of  the  detention  of  '  The  Excursion'  was  Hazlitt,  for  whom 
M.  Burney  borrowed  it,  and  after  reiterated  messages,  I 
only  got  it  on  Friday.  His  remarks  had  some  vigor  in 
them;*  particularly  something  about  an  old  ruin  being 
too  modern  for  your  Pj'imeval  Nature,  and  about  a  lichen. 
I  forget  the  passage,  but  the  whole  Avore  an  air  of  des- 
patch. That  objection  which  M.  Burney  had  imbibed 
from  him  about  Voltaire,  I  explained  to  M.  B.  (or  tried} 
exactly  on  your  principle  of  its  being  a  characteristic 
speech. f     That  it  was  no  settled  comparative  estimate  of 

*  This  refers  to  an  article  of  Ilazlitt  on  "  The  Excursion"  in  the  "Exaroi- 
ner,"  very  fine  in  passages,  but  more  characteristic  of  the  critic  than  descrip- 
tive of  the  poem. 

f  The  passage  in  which  the  copy  of  "  Candido,"  found  in  the  apartaxnt  of 
the  Recluse,  is  described  as  "the  dull  production  of  a  scoffer's  brain,"  which 
had  excited  Hazlitt  to  energetic  vindication  of  Voltaire  from  the  charge  of 
dulnCss.  "Whether  the  work  written  in  mockery  of  human  hopes,  be  dull,  I 
will  not  venture  to  determine,-  but  I  do  not  hesitate  at  any  risk,  to  avow  a 
conviction  that  no  book  in  the  world  is  more  adapted  to  make  a  good  maa 
wretched. 


LETTERS    TO    V/ORDSAVORTH.  143 

Voltaire  witli  any  of  his  own  tribe  of  buffoons — no  injus- 
tice, even  \^  you  spoke  it,  for  I  dared  say  you  never  could 
relish  '  Candide.'  I  know  I  tried  to  get  through  it 
about  a  twelvemonth  since,  and  could'nt  for  the  dulness. 
Now  I  think  I  have  a  wider  range  in  buffoonery  than  you. 
Too  much  toleration  perhaps. 

"  I  finish  this  after  a  raw  ill-baked  dinner  fast  gobbled 
up  to  set  me  off  to  ofnce  again,  after  working  there  till 
near  four.  0  how  I  wish  I  were  a  rich  man,  even  though 
I  were  squeezed  camel-fashion  at  getting  through  that 
needle's  eye  that  is  spoken  of  in  the  Writteyi  Word. 
Apropos ;  is  the  Poet  of  '  The  Excursion'  a  Christian  ? 
or  is  it  the  Pedlar  and  the  Priest  that  are  ? 

"  I  find  I  miscalled  that  celestial  splendor  of  the  mist 
going  off,  a  sunset.  That  only  shows  my  inaccuracy  of 
head. 

"  Do,  pray,  indulge  me  by  writing  an  answer  to  the 
point  of  time  mentioned  above,  or  let  Soulliey.  I  am 
ashamed  to  go  bargaining  in  this  way,  but  indeed  I  have 
no  time  I  can  reckon  on  till  the  first  week  in  October. 
God  send  I  may  not  be  disappointed  in  that  !  Coleridge 
swore  in  a  letter  to  me  he  would  review  '  The  Excursion' 
in  the  '  Quarterly.'  Therefore,  though  that  shall  not  stop 
me,  yet  if  I  can  do  anything,  when  done,  I  must  know  of 
him  if  he  has  anything  ready,  or  I  shall  fill  the  world  with 
loud  exclaims. 

"  I  keep  writing  on,  knowing  the  postage  is  no  more  for 
much  writing,  else  so  fagged  and  dispirited  I  am  with 
cursed  India  House  work,  I  scarce  know  what  I  do.  My 
left  arm  reposes  on  '  The  Excursion.'  I  feel  what  it  would 
be  in  quiet.     It  is  now  a  sealed  book.'' 

The  next  letter  Avas  written  after  the  fatal  critique  v.'as 
despatched  to  the  Editor,  and  before  its  appearance. 


14-i  LETTERS  TO  WOPDSWORTH. 


TO  ME.  WORDSWORTH. 

"1814. 

"  Dear  W. — Your  experience  about  tailors  seems  to  be 
in  point  blank  opposition  to  Burton,  as  much  as  the  au- 
thor of  '  The  Excursion'  does,  toto  ccelo,  differ  in  his  notion 
of  a  country  life,  from  the  picture  which  W.  H.  has  exhi- 
bited of  the  same.  But,  with  a  little  explanation,  you 
and  B.  may  be  reconciled.  It  is  evident  that  he  confined 
his  observations  to  the  genuine  native  London  Tailor. 
What  freaks  tailor-nature  may  take  in  the  country  is  not 
for  him  to  give  account  of.  And  certainly  some  of  the 
freaks  recorded  do  give  an  idea  of  the  persons  in  question 
being  beside  themselves,  rather  than  in  harmony  with  the 
common,  moderate,  self-enjoyment  of  the  rest  of  mankind. 
A  flying-tailor,  I  venture  to  say,  is  no  more  in  rcrum 
natiira  than  a  flying-horse  or  a  Gryphon.  Ilis  wheeling 
his  airy  flight  from  the  precipice  you  mention,  had  a 
parallel  in  the  melancholy  Jew  who  toppled  from  the  monu- 
ment. Were  his  limbs  ever  found  ?  Then,  the  man  ^vho 
cures  diseases  by  words,  is  evidently  an  inspired  tailor. 
Burton  never  aflSnned  that  the  art  of  sewing  disqualified 
the  practiser  of  it  from  being  a  fit  organ  for  superna- 
tural revelation.  He  never  enters  into  such  subjects.  'Tis 
the  common,  uninspired  tailor  which  he  speaks  of.  Acrain, 
the  person  who  makes  his  smiles  to  be  heard,  is  evidently 
a  man  under  possession  ;  a  demoniac  tailor.  A  greater 
hell  than  his  own  must  have  a  hand  in  this.  I  am  not 
certain  that  the  cause  -which  you  advocate  has  much  reason 
for  triumph.  You  seem  to  me  to  substitute  light-headed- 
ness  for  ligh-heartedness  by  a  trick,  or  not  to  know  the 
difterence.  I  confess  a  grinning  tailor  would  shock  me. 
Enough  of  tailors  ! 

"  The  '  'scapes'  of  the  Great  God  Pan,  who  apDeared 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  145 

among  your  mountains  some  dozen  years  since,  and  his 
narrow  chance  of  being  submerged  by  the  swains,  afforded 
me  much  pleasure.  I  can  conceive  the  water-nymphs  pull- 
ing for  him.  He  would  have  been  another  Hylas — W. 
Hylas.  In  a  mad  letter  which  Capel  Lofft  wrote  to  M. 
M.*  Phillips  (now  Sir  Richard)  I  remember  his  noticing  a 
metaphysical  article  of  Pan,  signed  H.,  and  adding,  '  I 
take  your  correspondent  to  be  the  same  with  Hylas.' 
Hylas  had  put  forth  a  pastoral  just  before.  How  near 
the  unfounded  conjecture  of  the  certainly  inspired  Lofft 
(unfounded  as  we  thought  it)  was  to  being  realised !  I 
can  conceive  him  being  '  good  to  all  that  wander  in  that 
perilous  flood.'  One  J.  Scottf  (I  know  no  more)  is  editor 
of  '  The  Champion.'     Where  is  Coleridge  ? 

"  That  Review  you  speak  of,  I  am  only  sorry  it  did  not 
appear  last  month.  The  circumstances  of  haste  and  pe- 
culiar bad  spirits  under  which  it  was  written,  would  have 
excused  its  slightness  and  inadequacy,  the  full  load  of 
which  I  shall  suffer  from  its  lying  by  so  long,  as  it  will 
seem  to  have  done,  from  its  postponement.  I  write  with 
great  difficulty,  and  can  scarce  command  my  own  resolu- 
tion to  sit  at  writing  an  hour  together.  I  am  a  poor  crea- 
ture, but  I  am  leaving  off  gin.  I  hope  you  will  see  good- 
will in  the  thing.  I  had  a  difficulty  to  perform  not  to 
make  it  all  panegyric ;  I  have  attempted  to  personate  a 
mere  stranger  to  you  ;  perhaps  with  too  much  strangeness. 
But  you  must  bear  that  in  mind  when  you  read  it,  and  not 
think  that  I  am,  in  mind,  distant  from  you  or  your  poem, 
but  that  both  are  close  to  me,  among  the  nearest  of  per- 

*  Monthly  Magnzinc. 

t  Afterwards  the  distinguished  and  unfortunate  editor  of  the  London  Mag- 
azine. 

13 


146  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

sons  and  things.  I  do  but  act  the  stranger  in  the  RevieTV. 
Then  I  was  puzzled  about  extracts,  and  determined  upon 
not  giving  one  that  had  been  in  the  '  Examiner  ;'  for  ex- 
tracts repeated  give  an  idea  that  there  is  a  meagre  al- 
lowance of  good  things.  By  this  way,  I  deprived  myself 
of  '  Sir  Alfred  Irthing,'  and  the  reflections  that  conclude 
his  story,  which  are  the  flower  of  the  poem.  Hazlitt  had 
given  the  reflections  before  me.  Then  it  is  the  first  re- 
view I  ever  did,  and  I  did  not  know  how  long  I  might 
make  it.  But  it  must  speak  for  itself,  if  Gifford  and  his 
crew  do  not  put  words  in  its  mouth,  which  I  expect.  Fare- 
well.    Love  to  all.     Mary  keeps  very  bad. 

"  C.  Lamb." 

The  apprehension  expressed  at  the  close  of  the  last  let- 
ter was  dismally  verified.  The  following  contains  Lamb's 
first  burst  of  an  indignation  which  lasted  amidst  all  his 
gentleness  and  tolerance  unquenched  through  life  : — 

TO    MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"1S14. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. —  I  told  you  my  Review  was  a  very 
imperfect  one.  But  what  you  will  see  in  the  '  Quarterly' 
is  a  spurious  one,  which  Mr.  Baviad  Giff'ord  has  palmed 
upon  it  for  mine.  I  never  felt  more  vexed  in  my  life  than 
when  I  read  it.  I  cannot  give  you  an  idea  of  what  he  has 
done  to  it,  out  of  spite  at  me,  because  he  once  suff'ercd  me 
to  be  called  a  lunatic  in  his  Review.*  The  laiujuage  he 
has  altered  throughout.  Whatever  inadequateness  it  had 
to  its  subject,  it  was,  in  point  of  composition,  the  prettiest 

*  In  iillnding  to  Liimb's  note  on  tbo  great  scene  of  "The  Broken  Heart," 
•whore  Calantha  dances  on,  after  hearing  at  every  pause  of  some  terrible 
calamity,  a  writer  in  tho  "  Quarterly"  had  affected  to  excuse  the  writer  as  a 
"  maniac  ;"  a  suggestion  which  circumstances  rendered  most  cruel. 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  147 

piece  of  pvose  I  ever  writ ;  and  so  my  sister  (to  Avhom  alone 
I  read  the  MS.)  said.  That  charm,  if  it  had  any,  is  all 
gone :  more  than  a  third  of  the  substance  is  cut  away,  and 
that  not  all  from  one  place,  but  passim,  so  as  to  make  ut- 
ter nonsense.  Every  warm  expression  is  changed  for  a 
nasty  cold  one. 

"  I  have  not  the  cursed  alteration  by  me  ;  I  shall  never 
look  at  it  again  ;  but  for  a  specimen,  I  remember  I  had 
said  the  poet  of  '  The  Excursion'  '  walks  through  common 
forests  as  through  some  Dodona  or  enchanted  wood,  and 
every  casual  bird  that  flits  upon  the  boughs,  like  that  mi- 
raculous one  in  Tasso,  but  in  language  more  piercing  than 
any  articulate  sounds,  reveals  to  him  far  higher  love-lays.' 
It  is  now  (besides  half-a-dozen  alterations  in  the  same  half- 
dozen  lines)  '  but  in  language  more  intelligent  reveals  to 
him  ;' — that  is  one  I  remember. 

"  But  that  would  have  been  little,  putting  his  shoemaker 
phraseology  (for  he  was  a  shoemaker)  instead  of  mine, 
which  has  been  tinctured  with  better  authors  than  his 
ignorance  can  comprehend  ; — for  I  reckon  myself  a  dab  at 
prose  ; — -verse  I  leave  to  my  betters  :  God  help  them,  if 
they  are  to  be  so  reviewed  by  friend  and  foe  as  you  have 
been  this  quarter !  I  have  read  '  It  won't  do.'  *  But 
worse  than  altering  words ;  he  has  kept  a  few  members  only 
of  the  part  I  had  done  best,  which  was  to  explain  all  I 
could  of  your  'Scheme  of  Harmonies,'  as  I  had  ventured 
to  call  it,  between  the  external  universe  and  what  within 
us  answers  to  it.  To  do  this  I  had  accumulated  a  good 
many  short  passages,  rising  in  length  to  the  end,  weaving 
in  the  extracts  as  if  they  came  in  as  a  part  of  the  text  nat- 

*  Though  the  article  on  "The  Excursion,"  in  the  "Edinburgh  Review," 
commenced  "  This  will  never  do!"  it  contained  ample  illustrations  of  thii 
author's  genius,  and  helped  the  world  to  disprove  its  oracular  beginning. 


148  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

urall}?-,  not  obtruding  tliem  as  specimens.  Of  this  part  a 
little  is  left,  but  so  as,  without  conjuration,  no  man  could 
tell  what  I  was  driving  at.  A  proof  of  it  you  may  see 
(though  not  judge  of  the  whole  of  the  injustice)  by  these 
words.  I  had  spoken  something  about  '  natural  method- 
ism  ;'  and  after  follows,  'and  therefore  the  tale  of  Marga- 
ret should  have  been  postponed'  (I  foi'get  my  words,  or 
his  words) ;  now  the  reasons  for  postponing  it  are  as  de- 
ducible  from  Avhat  goes  before,  as  they  are  from  the  104tn 
Psalm.  The  passage  whence  I  deduced  it,  has  vanished, 
but  clapping  a  colon  before  a  therefore  is  always  reason 
enough  for  Mr.  Baviad  Gilford  to  allow  to  a  reviewer  that 
is  not  himself.  I  assure  you  my  complaints  are  founded. 
I  know  how  sore  a  word  altered  makes  one ;  but,  indeed, 
of  this  review  the  whole  complexion  is  gone.  I  regret  only 
that  I  did  not  keep  a  copy.  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
been  pleased  Avith  it,  because  I  have  been  feeding  my  fancy 
for  some  months  with  the  notion  of  pleasing  you.  Its  imper- 
fection or  inadequateness  in  size  and  method  I  knew ;  but 
for  the  writing-part  of  it  I  was  fally  satisfied ;  I  hoped  it 
would  make  more  than  atonement.  Ten  or  twelve  dis- 
tinct passages  come  to  my  mind,  which  are  gone,  and 
what  is  left  is,  of  course,  the  worse  for  their  having  been 
there  ;  the  eyes  are  pulled  out,  and  the  bleeding  sockets  are 
left. 

"  I  read  it  at  Arch's  shop  with  my  face  burning  with 
vexation  secretly,  with  just  such  a  feeling  as  if  it  had  been 
a  review  written  against  myself,  making  false  quotations 
from  me.  But  I  am  ashamed  to  say  so  much  about  a 
short  piece.  How  are  you  served  !  and  the  labors  of  years 
turned  into  contempt  by  scoundrels ! 

"  But  I  could  not  but  protest  against  your  taking  that 
clung  as  mine.     Every  pretty  expression  (I  knriAv  there  Avere 


LETTER    TO    MISS    IIUTCHINSOX.  14'"' 

many) ;  every  warm  expression  (there  was  nothing  else) 
13  vulgarised  and  frozen.  But  if  they  catch  me  in  their 
camps  again,  let  them  spitclicock  me  !  They  had  a  right 
to  do  it,  as  no  name  appears  to  it,  and  jMr.  Shoemaker  Gif- 
ford,  I  suppose,  never  waived  a  right  he  had  since  ho  com- 
menced author.     Heaven  confound  him  and  all  caitiffs  ! 

"C.  L." 

The  following  letter  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  sister,  who 
resided  with  the  poet  at  Rydal,  relates  to  matters  of  yet 
nearer  interest. 

TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

"Thursday,  19th  Oct.,  1815. 

"Dear  Miss  II. — I  am  forced  to  be  the  replier  to  your 
letter,  for  Mary  has  been  ill,  and  gone  from  home  these 
five  weeks  yesterday.  She  has  left  me  very  lonely,  and 
very  miserable.  I  stroll  about,  but  there  is  no  rest  but  at 
one's  own  fireside,  and  there  is  no  rest  for  me  there  now. 
I  look  forward  to  the  worse  half  being  past,  and  keep  up 
as  well  as  I  can.  She  has  begun  to  show  some  favorable 
symptoms.  The  return  of  her  disorder  has  been  fright- 
fully soon  this  time,  with  scarce  a  six  months'  interval.  I 
am  almost  afraid  my  worry  of  spirits  about  the  E.  I.  House 
was  partly  the  cause  of  her  illness,  but  one  always  imputes 
it  to  the  cause  next  at  hand  ;  more  probably  it  comes  from 
some  cause  we  have  no  control  over  or  conjecture  of.  It 
cuts  sad  great  slices  out  of  the  time,  the  little  time,  wo 
shall  have  to  live  together.  I  don't  know  but  the  recur- 
rence of  these  illnesses  might  help  me  to  sustain  her  death 
better  than  if  we  had  had  no  partial  separations.  But  I 
won't  talk  of  death.     I  will  imagine  us  immortal,  or  forget 

that  we  are  otherwise.     By  God's  blessing,  in  a  few  weeks 
13* 


150  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

we  may  be  making  our  meal  together,  or  sitting  in  tnt 
front  row  of  the  Pit  at  Drury  Lane,  or  taking  our  evening 
walk  past  the  theatres,  to  look  at  the  outside  of  them,  at 
least,  if  not  to  be  tempted  in.  Then  we  forget  we  are  as- 
sailable ;  we  are  strong  for  the  time  as  rocks  ; — '  the  wind 
is  tempered  to  the  shorn  Lambs.'  Poor  C.  Lloyd,  and 
poor  Priscilla  !  I  feel  I  hardly  feel  enough  for  him  ;  my 
own  calamities  press  about  me,  and  involve  me  in  a  thick 
integument  not  to  be  reached  at  by  other  folks'  misfor- 
tunes. But  I  feel  all  I  can — all  the  kindness  I  can,  to- 
wards you  all— God  bless  you  !  I  hear  nothing  from  Cole- 
rido-e.  Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb." 

The  following  three  letters  best  speak  for  themselves  : — 


TO    MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

"  The  conclusion  of  this  epistle  getting  gloomy,  I  h^ve 
chosen  this  part  to  desire  our  kindest  loves  to  Mrs.  Words- 
worth and  to  Dorothea.  Will  none  of  you  ever  be  in  Lon- 
don again  ? 

"ISlo. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — You  have  made  me  very  proud 
with  your  successive  book  presents.  I  have  been  carefully 
throuo-h  the  two  volumes,  to  see  that  nothing  was  omitted 
Avhich  used  to  be  there.  I  think  I  miss  nothing  but  a 
character  in  antithetic  manner,  which  I  do  not  know  why 
you  left  out — the  moral  to  the  boys  building  the  giant, 
the  omission  whereof  leaves  it,  in  my  mind,  less  complete, 
— and  one  admirable  line  gone  (or  something  come  instead 
of  it),  '  the  stone-chat,  and  the  glancing  sand-piper,'  which 
was  a  line  quite  alive.  I  demand  these  at  your  hand.  I 
am  glad  that  you  have  not  sacrificed  a  verse  to  those  sconn- 


LETTERS    TO    AVORDSWORTII. 


151 


drels.  I  would  not  have  had  you  offer  up  tlie  ])Oorest  rag 
that  lingered  upon  the  strlpt  shouhiers  of  little  Alice  Fell,  to 
have  atoned  all  their  malice  ;  I  would  not  hnve  given  'em 
a  red  cloak  to  save  their  souls.  I  am  afraid  lest  that  sub- 
stitution of  a  shell  (a  flat  falsification  of  the  history)  for 
the  household  implement,  as  it  stood  at  first,  was  a  kind 
of  tub  thrown  out  to  the  beast,  or  rather  thrown  out  for 
him.  The  tub  was  a  good  honest  tub  in  its  place,  and  no- 
thing could  fairly  be  said  against  it.  You  say  you  made 
the  alteration  for  the  '  friendly  reader,'  but  the  '  malicious' 
will  take  it  to  himself.  If  you  give  'em  an  inch,  &c.  The 
Preface  is  noble,  and  such  as  jou  should  write.  I  wish  I 
could  set  my  name  to  it,  Imprimatur, — but  you  have  set 
it  there  yourself,  and  I  thank  you.  I  had  rather  be  a 
y  door-keeper  in  your  margin,  than  have  their  proudest  text 
swelling  with  my  eulogies.  The  poems  in  the  volumes, 
which  are  new  to  me,  are  so  much  in  the  old  tone,  that  I 
hardly  received  them  as  novelties.  Of  those,  of  Avhich  I 
had  no  previous  knowledge,  the  '  Four  Yew  Trees,'*  and 
the  mysterious  company  which  you  have  assembled  there, 
most  struck  me — '  Death  the  Skeleton  and  Time  the  Shadow.' 
It  is  a  sight  not  for  every  ^^outhful  poet  to  dream  of;  it  is 
one  of  the  last  results  he  must  have  gone  thinking  on  for 
years  for.  '  Laodamia'  is  a  very  original  poem  ;  I  mean 
original  with  reference  to  your  own  manner.  Y'ou  have 
nothing  like  it.  I  should  luive  seen  it  in  a  strange  place, 
and  greatly  admired  it,  but  not  suspected  its  derivation. 

"Let  me  in  this  place,  for  I  have  writ  you  several  letters 
naming  it,  mention  that  my  brother,  who  is  a  picture  col 

*  The  poem  on  the  four  great  yew  trees  of  BorrowJale,  wbicli  the  poet  hiis, 
by  the  most  potent  magic  of  the  imagination,  converted  into  a  temple  for  the 
ghastly  forms  of  Death  and  Time  "  to  moot  at  noon-tide," — a  passage  sur^lj 
not  surpassed  in  any  English  poetry  written  since  the  days  of  Milton 


T^9  * 

^^  LETTERS    TO    "WORDSWORTH. 

lector,  has  picked  up  an  undoubtable  picture  of  Milton. 
He  gave  a  few  shillings  for  it,  and  could  get  no  history 
with  it,  but  that  some  old  lady  had  had  it  for  a  great  manv 
years.  Its  age  is  ascertainable  from  the  state  of  the  can- 
vas, and  you  need  only  see  it  to  be  sure  that  it  is  the 
original  of  the  heads  in  the  Tonson  editions,  with  which 
we  are  all  so  well  familiar.  Since  I  saw  you  I  have  had 
a  treat  in  the  reading  Avay,  Avhich  comes  not  every  day,* 
the  Latin  Poems  of  V.  Bourne,  Avhich  were  quite  new  to 
me.  What  a  heart  that  man  had,  all  laid  out  upon  town 
scenes,  a  proper  counterpoise  to  so7ne  peoples  rural  ex- 
travaganzas. Why  I  mention  him  is,  that  your  '  Power 
of  Music'  reminded  me  of  his  poem  of  '  The  Ballad-singer 
in  the  Seven  Dials.'  Do  you  remember  his  epigram  on 
the  old  woman  who  taught  Newton  the  ABC,  which, 
after  all,  he  says,  he  hesitates  not  to  call  NcAvton's  '  Prin- 
cipia  !'  I  w\as  lately  fatiguing  myself  with  going  through 
a  volume  of  fine  words  by  Lord  Thurlow ;  excellent  words ; 
and  if  the  heart  could  live  by  w^ords  alone,  it  could  desire 
no  better  regales  ;  but  what  an  aching  vacuum  of  matter  ! 
I  don't  stick  at  the  madness  of  it,  for  that  is  only  a  con- 
sequence of  shutting  his  eyes  and  thinking  he  is  in  the  age 
of  the  old  Elizabeth  poets.  From  thence  I  turned  to 
Bourne.  What  a  sweet,  unpretending,  pretty-mannered, 
matter-ful  creature  sucking  from  every  flower,  making  a 
flower  of  everything,  his  diction  all  Latin,  and  his  thoughts 
all  English.  Bless  him  !  Latin  wasn't  good  enough  for 
him.  Why  wasn't  ho  content  witli  the  langunge  which 
Gay  and  Prior  wrote  in  ? 

"  I   am   almost   sorry  that   you   printed   extracts  from 


*  Tht)   following  little  p.Tssago  about  Vincent  Bourne  has  been  previously 
printed. 


tETTERS    TO    AVORDS.WORTH.  153 

those  first  poems,*  or  that  you  did  not  print  them  at 
length.  They  do  not  read  to  me  as  they  do  aUogether. 
Besides,  they  have  diminished  the  value  of  the  original 
(which  I  possess)  as  a  curiosity.  I  have  hitherto  kept 
them  distinct  in  my  mind  as  referring  to  a  particular 
period  of  your  life.  All  the  rest  of  your  poems  are  so 
much  of  a  piece,  they  might  have  been  written  in  the  same 
"week ;  these  decidedly  speak  of  an  earlier  period.  They 
tell  more  of  what  you  had  been  reading.  We  were  glad 
to  see  the  poems  'by  a  female  friend. 'f  The  one  on  the 
wind  is  masterly,  but  not  new  to  us.  Being  only  three, 
perhaps  you  might  have  clapt  a  D.  at  the  corner,  and  let 
it  have  past  as  a  printer's  mark  to  the  uninitiated,  as  a  de- 
lightful hint  to  the  better  instructed.  As  it  is,  expect  a 
formal  criticism  on  the  poems  of  your  female  friend,  and 
she  must  expect  it.  I  should  have  written  before,  but  I 
am  cruelly  engaged,  and  like  to  be.  On  Friday  I  was  at 
office  from  ten  in  the  morning  (two  hours  dinner  except) 
to  eleven  at  night ;  last  night  till  nine.  My  business  and 
office-business  in  general  have  increased  so ;  I  don't  mean 
I  am  there  every  night,  but  I  must  expect  a  great  deal  of 
it.  I  never  leave  till  four,  and  do  not  keep  a  holiday  now 
once  in  ten  times,  where  I  used  to  keep  all  red-letter 
days,  and  some  five  days  besides,  which  I  used  to  dub 
Nature's  holidays.  I  have  had  my  day.  I  had  formerly 
little  to  do.  So  of  the  little  that  is  left  of  life,  I  may 
reckon  tw^o-thirds  as  dead,  for  time  that  a  man  may  call 
his  own  is  his  life ;  and  hard  work  and  thinking  about  it 
taint  even  the  leisure  hours — stain  Sunday  with  work-day 

*  The  "Evening  Walk,"  and  "Descriptive  Sketches  among  the  Alps"— 
Wordsworth's  earliest  poems— now  happily  restored  in  their  sr.tirety  to  theif 
proper  places  in  the  poet's  collected  works. 

f  By  Miss  Dorothea  Wordsworth. 


15'1  LETTERS    TO    WOTIDSWOKTH. 

contemplations.  This  is  SuncLiy :  and  the  head-ache  I 
have  is  pnrt  hite  hours  at  work  the  two  preceding  nights, 
and  part  later  hours  over  a  consoling  pipe  afterwards. 
But  I  find  stupid  acquiescence  coming  over  me.  I  bend 
to  the  yoke,  and  it  is  almost  with  me  and  my  household 
as  with  the  man  and  his  consort, 

'  To  them  each  evening  bad  its  glittering  star, 
And  every  Sabbath-day  its  golden  sun,' 

to  such  straits  am  I  driven  for  the  life  of  life.  Time  !  0 
that  from  that  superfluity  of  holiday-leisure  my  youth 
wasted,  '  Age  might  but  take  some  hours  youth  wanted 
not.'  N.B. — I  have  left  off  spirituous  liquors  for  four  or 
more  months,  with  a  moral  certainty  of  its  lasting.* 
Farewell,  dear  Wordsworth  ! 

"  0  happy  Paris,  seat  of  idleness  and  pleasure !  from 
some  returned  English  I  hear,  that  not  such  a  thing  as  a 
counting-house  is  to  be  seen  in  her  streets,  scarce  a  desk. 
Earthquakes  swallow  up  this  mercantile  city  and  its 
'gripple  merchants,'  as  Drayton  hath  it — 'born  to  be  the 
curse  of  this  brave  isle  !'  I  invoke  this,  not  on  account 
of  any  parsimonious  habits  the  mercantile  interest  may 
have,  but,  to  confess  truth,  because  I  am  not  fit  for  an 
ofiice. 

"Farewell,  in  haste,  from  a  head  that  is  too  ill  to 
methodise,  a  stomach  to  digest,  and  all  out  of  tune.  Bet- 
ter harmonies  await  you !  C.  Lamb." 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"  Excuse  this  maddish  letter ;  I  am  too  tired  to  write 
in  forma. 

*  Alas  !  for  moral  certainty  in  this  moral  but  mortal  wor/d  !  Lamb's  reso- 
lution to  leave  off  spirituous  liquors  was  a  brave  one  ;  but  he  strengthened  and 
rewarded  it  by  such  copious  libations  of  porter,  that  his  sister,  for  whose  sake 
maicly  h"?  attempted  the  sacrifice,  entreated  him  to  "live  like  himself,"  anil 
in  a  few  weeka  after  this  assurance  he  obeyed  her. 


LETTERS   TO    WORDSWORTH.  155 

"1815. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — The  more  I  read  of  your  two  last 
volumes,  the  more  I  feel  it  necessary  to  make  my  acknow- 
ledgments for  them  in  more  than  one  short  letter.  The 
'  Night  Piece,  to  which  you  refer  me,  I  meant  fully  to 
have  noticed ;  but,  the  fact  is,  I  come  so  fluttering  and 
languid  from  business,  tired  with  thoughts  of  it,  frightened 
with  fears  of  it,  that  when  I  get  a  few  minutes  to  sit  down 
to  scribble  (an  action  of  the  hand  now  seldom  natural  to 
me — I  mean  voluntary  pen-work)  I  lose  all  presential 
memory  of  what  I  had  intended  to  say,  and  say  what  I 
can,  talk  about  Vincent  Bourne,  or  any  casual  image, 
instead  of  that  Avhich  I  had  meditated,  (by  the  way,  I 
must  look  out  V.  B.  for  you).  So  I  had  meant  to  have 
mentioned  'Yarrow  Visited,'  with  that  stanza,  '  But  thou, 
that  didst  appear  so  fair  ;'*  than  which  I  think  no  lovelier 
stanza  can  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  poetry;  yet  the 
poem,  on  the  whole,  seems  condemned  to  leave  behind  it  a 
melancholy  of  imperfect  satisfaction,  as  if  you  had  wronged 
the  feeling  with  which,  in  what  preceded  it,  you  had  re- 
solved never  to  visit  it,  and  as  if  the  Muse  had  determined, 
in  the  most  delicate  manner,  to  make  you,  and  scarce  make 
you,  feel  it.  Else,  it  is  far  superior  to  the  other,  which 
has  but  one  exquisite  verse  in  it,  the  last  but  one,  or  the 
two  last — this  has  all  fine,  except,  perhaps,  that  that  of 
'studious  ease  and  generous  cares,'  has  a  little  tinge  of 
the  lci<s  romantic  about  it.  '  The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury 
Vale'  is  a  charming  counterpart  to  'Poor  Susan,'  with  the 
addition  of  that  delicacy  towards  aberrations  from  tlie 
strict  path,  which  is  so  fine  in  the  '  Old  Thief  and  the  Bo_y 

*  "But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fiiir 
To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation." 


156  LETTERS   TO   WORDSWORTH. 

by  his  side,'  "which  always  brings  Avater  into  my  eyes. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  -worse  for  being  a  repetition  ;  '  Susan' 
stood  for  the  representative  of  poor  Rus  in  Urhe.  There 
was  quite  enough  to  stamp  the  moral  of  the  thing  never 
to  be  forgotten  ;  '  bright  volumes  of  vapor,'  &:c.  The  last 
verse  of  Susan  Avas  to  be  got  rid  of,  at  all  events.  It 
threw  a  kind  of  dubiety  upon  Susan's  moral  conduct, 
Susan  is  a  servant  maid.  I  see  her  trundling  her  mop, 
and  contemplating  the  whirling  phenomenon  through 
blurred  optics  ;  but  to  term  her  '  a  poor  outcast'  seems  as 
much  as  to  say  that  poor  Susan  was  no  better  than  she 
should  be,  which  I  trust  Avas  not  Avhat  you  meant  to  ex- 
press. Robin  GoodfelloAv  supports  himself  without  that 
stick  of  a  moral  Avhich  you  have  throAvn  aAvay  ;  but  hoAv  I 
can  be  brought  in  felo  de  orniUendo  for  that  ending  to  the 
Boy-builders  is  a  mystery.  I  can't  say  positively  now — 
I  only  know  that  no  line  oftener  or  readier  occurs  than 
that  '  Light-hearted  boys,  I  will  build  up  a  Giant  Avith 
you.'  It  comes  naturally,  Avith  a  Avarm  holiday,  and  the 
freshness  of  the  blood.  It  is  a  perfect  summer  amulet, 
that  I  tie  round  my  legs  to  quicken  their  motion  Avhen  I 
go  out  a  maying.  (N.B.)  I  don't  often  go  out  a  maying; 
Must  is  the  tense  Avith  me  noAV.  Do  you  take  the  pun  ? 
Young  Romilly  is  diA'ine  ;*  the   reasons  of  his  mother's 

*  The  admirable  little  poem,  entitled  "The  Force  of  Prayer,"  developing 
the  depths  of  a  widowed  mother's  grief,  whose  only  son  has  been  drowned  in 
attempting  to  leap  over  the  precipice  of  the  "  AVharf"  at  Bolton  Abbey.  The 
first  line,  printed  in  old  English  characters,  from  some  old  English  ballad, 

'  AVbat  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene '!' 

suggests  Miss  Lamb's  single  pun.  The  following  are  the  profoundest  stauzaa 
among  those  which  excite  her  brother's  most  just  admiration  — 

"If  for  a  lover  the  lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 
From  death  and  from  the  passion  of  death ; — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 


LETTERS   TO   WORDSWORTH.  15T 

grief  being  remediless — I  never  saw  parental  love  carried 
i;p  so  liigli,  towering  above  the  other  loves — Shak spear e 
had  done  something  for  the  filial,  in  Cordelia,  and,  by 
implication,  for  the  fatherly  too,  in  Lear's  resentment ; 
he  left  it  for  you  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  maternal 
heart.  I  get  stupid,  and  flat,  and  flattering ;  what's  the 
use  of  telling  you  what  good  things  you  have  written,  or 
— I  hope  I  may  add — that  I  know  them  to  be  good? 
Apropos — when  I  first  opened  upon  the  just-mentioned 
poem,  in  a  careless  tone,  I  said  to  Mary,  as  if  putting  a 
riddle,  '  What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene  T  To  which, 
with  infinite  presence  of  mind,  (as  the  jest-book  has  it)  she 
answered,  '  a  shoeless  pea.'  It  was  the  first  joke  she  ever 
made.  Joke  the  second  I  make.  You  distinguish  well, 
in  your  old  preface,  between  the  verses  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
of  the  '  Man  in  the  Strand,'  and  that  from  '  The  Babes  in 
the  Wood.'  I  was  thinking,  whether  taking  your  own 
glorious  lines — 

'And  from  tlie  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Romill}',' 

which,  by  the  love  I  bear  my  own  soul,  I  think  have  no 
parallel  in  any  of  the  best  old  ballads,  and  just  altering  it 
to— 

'And  from  tho  great  respect  she  felt 
For  Sir  Samuel  llomilly,' 

would  not  have  explained  the  boundaries  of  prose  expres- 
sion, and  poetic  feeling,  nearly  as  well.  Excuse  my  levity 
on  such  an  occasion.     I  never  felt  deeply  in  my  life  if  that 

She  weeps  not  for  tho  wedJing-day, 

Which  was  to  be  to-morrow : 
Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 

And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow." 

14 


158 


LETTERS    TO  WORDSWORTH. 


poem  did  not  make  me,  both  lately  and  wlien  I  read  it  in 
MS.  No  alderman  ever  longed  after  a  haunch  of  bucV 
venison  more  than  I  for  a  spiritual  taste  of  that  '  White 
Doe'  you  promise.  I  am  sure  it  is  superlative,  or  will  be 
when  drest,  i.  e.,  printed.  All  things  read  raw  to  me  in 
MS.;  to  compare  magna  parvis,  I  cannot  endure  m.y  own 
writings  in  that  state.  The  only  one  which  I  think  would 
not  very  much  win  upon  me  in  print  is  Peter  Bell.  But 
I  am  not  certain.  You  ask  me  about  your  preface.  I 
like  both  that  and  the  supplement  without  an  exception. 
The  account  of  what  you  mean  by  imagination  is  very 
valuable  to  me.  It  wdll  help  me  to  like  some  things  in 
poetry  better,  Avhich  is  a  little  humiliating  in  me  to  con- 
fess. I  thought  I  could  not  be  instructed  in  that  science 
(I  mean  the  critical),  as  I  once  heard  old  obscene,  beastly 
Peter  Pindar,  in  a  dispute  on  Milton,  say  he  thought  that 
if  he  had  reasoa  to  value  himself  upon  one  thino-  more 
than  another,  it  was  in  knowing  what  good  verse  was. 
Who  looked  over  your  proof-sheets  and  left  ordebo  in  that 
line  of  Virgil  1 

"My  brother's  picture  of  Milton  is  very  finely  painted, 
that  is,  it  might  have  been  done  by  a  hand  next  to  Van- 
dyke's. It  is  the  genuine  Milton,  and  an  object  of  quiet 
gaze  for  the  half-hour  at  a  time.  Yet  though  I  am  con- 
fident there  is  no  better  one  of  him,  the  face  does  not 
quite  answer  to  Milton.  There  is  a  tinge  of  petit  (or 
2:)etite,  how  do  you  spell  it  ?)  querulousness  about  it ;  yet, 
hang  it !  now  I  remember  better,  there  is  not ;  it  is  calm, 
melancholy  and  poetical.  One  of  the  copies  of  the  poems 
you  sent  has  precisely  the  same  pleasant  blending  of  a 
sheet  of  second  volume  with  a  sheet  of  first.  I  think  it 
was  page  245  ;  but  I  sent  it  and  had  it  rectified.  It  gave 
me,  in  the  first  impetus  of  cutting  the  leaves,  just  such  a 


LETTERS   TO  AYORDSWORTH.  159 

cold  squelcn  as  going  down  a  plausible  turning  and  sud- 
denly reading  'No  thoroughfare.'  Robinson's  is  entire: 
I  wish  you  would  write  more  criticism  about  Spenser,  &c. 
1  think  I  could  say  something  about  him  myself,  but, 
Lord  b:'jss  me  !  these  'merchants  and  their  spicy  drugs,' 
which  are  so  harmonious  to  sing  of,  they  lime-twig  up  my 
poor  soul  and  body,  till  I  shall  forget  I  ever  thought  my- 
self a  bit  of  a  genius !  I  can't  even  put  a  few  thoughts  on 
paper  for  a  newspaper.  I  '  engross'  when  I  should  '  pen' 
a  paragraph.  Confusion  blast  all  mercantile  transactions, 
all  traffic,  exchange  of  commodities,  intercourse  between 
nations,  all  the  consequent  civilisation,  and  wealth,  and 
amity,  and  link  of  society,  and  getting  rid  of  prejudices, 
and  knowledge  of  the  face  of  the  globe  ;  and  rot  the  very 
firs  of  the  forest,  that  look  so  romantic,  alive,  and  die  into 
desks !      Vak. 

"  Yours,  dear  W.,  and  all  yours, 

"C.  Lamb." 

TO  MR.  AVORDSWORTH. 

"April  9th,  1S16. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — Thanks  for  the  books  you  have 
given  me,  and  for  all  the  books  you  mean  to  give  me.  I 
will  bind  up  the  Political  Sonnets  and  Ode  according  to 
your  suggestion.  I  have  not  bound  tlie  poems  yet.  I 
wait  till  people  have  done  borrowing  them.  I  think  I 
shall  get  a  chain  and  chain  them  to  my  shelves,  ojiore 
Bodleiano,  and  people  may  come  and  read  them  at  chain's 
length.  For  of  those  who  borrow,  some  read  slow;  some 
mean  to  read  but  don't  read ;  and  some  neither  read  nor 
meant  to  read,  but  borrow  to  leave  you  an  opinion  of  their 
sagacity.  I  must  do  my  money  borrowing  friends  the  jus- 
tice to  say  that  there  is  nothing  of  this  caprice  or  wanton 


ItiO  LETTERS    TO  WORDSWORTH. 

ness  of  alienation  in  them.  When  they  borrow  my  money 
they  never  fail  to  make  use  of  it.  Coleridge  has  been 
here  about  a  fortnight.  His  health  is  tolerable  at  present, 
though  beset  with  temptations.  In  the  first  place,  the 
Covent  Garden  Manager  has  declined  accepting  his  Tra- 
gedy, though  (having  read  it)  I  see  no  reason  upon  earth 
why  it  might  not  have  run  a  very  fair  chance,  though  it 
certainly  wants  a  prominent  part  for  a  Miss  O'Neil  or  a 
Mr.  Kean.  However,  he  is  going  to-day  to  write  to  Lord 
Byron  to  get  it  to  Drury.  Should  you  see  Mrs.  C,  who 
has  just  written  to  C.  a  letter,  which  I  have  given  him,  it 
will  be  as  well  to  say  nothing  about  its  fate,  till  some 
answer  is  shaped  from  Drury.  He  has  two  volumes  print- 
ing, together  at  Bristol,  both  finished  as  far  as  the  com- 
position goes  ;  the  latter  containing  his  fugitive  poems,  the 
former  his  Literary  Life.  Nature,  who  conducts  every 
creature  by  instinct,  to  its  best  end,  has  skilfully  directed 
C.  to  take  up  his  abode  at  a  Chymist's  Laboratory  in 
Norfolk-street.  She  might  as  well  have  sent  a  Helluo 
Librorum  for  cure  to  the  Vatican.  God  keep  him  invio- 
late among  the  traps  and  pitfalls  I  He  has  done  pretty 
well  as  yet. 

"  Tell  Miss  H.,  my  sister  is  every  day  wishing  to  be 
quietly  sitting  down  to  answer  her  very  kind  letter,  but 
Avhile  C.  stays  she  can  hardly  find  a  quiet  time  ;  God  bless 
him ! 

"  Tell  Mrs.  W.  her  postscripts  are  always  agreeable. 
They  are  so  legible  too.  Your  manual-graphy  is  terrible, 
dark  as  Lycophron.     'Likelihood,'  for  instance,  is  thus 

typified *     I   should  not  Avonder  if  the   constant 

making  out  of  such  paragraphs  is  the  cause  of  that  weak- 
ness in  Mrs.  W.'s  eyes,  as  she  is  tenderly  pleased  to  ex- 

*  Here  is  a  most  inimitable  scrawl. 


LETTERS    TO  "WORDSWORTH.  161 

press  it.  Dorothy,  I  hear,  has  mounted  spectacles ;  so 
you  have  deocuhitcd  two  of  your  dearest  rehations  in  life. 
Well,  God  bless  you,  and  continue  to  give  you  power  to 
^yrite  with  a  finger  of  poAver  upon  our  hearts  Avhat  you  fail 
to  imprcoS,  in  corresponding  lucidness,  upon  our  outward 
eye-sight ! 

"  Mary's  love  to  all ;  she  is  quite  well. 

"  I  am  called  off  to  do  the  deposits  on  Cotton  AYool — 
but  why  do  I  relate  this  to  you,  who  want  faculties  to 
comprehend  the  great  mystery  of  deposits,  of  interest,  of 
warehouse  rent,  and  contingent  fund  ?     Adieu  ! 

"  C.  Lamb. 

"  A  longer  letter  when  C.  is  gone  back  into  the  country, 
relating  his  success,  &;c. — ?»^  judgment  ol  your  new  books, 
kc.  ka. — I  am  scarce  quiet  enough  while  he  stays. 

"Yours  again,  C.  L." 

The  next  letter  is  fantastically  written  beneath  a  regu- 
lar official  order,  the  words  in  italics  being  printed. 

"  Sir. — Please  to  state  the  iceigltts  and  amounts  of  the 
following  Lots  of 
sold  Sale,  181  for 

"  Your  obedient  Servant, 

"  CiiAS.  Lamb." 

"Accountant's  OfTico,  20lli  April,  ISIG.* 

"Dear  W. — I  have  just  finished  the  pleasing  task  of 
correcting  the  revise  of  the  poems  and  letter.  I  hope 
they  will  come  out  faultless.  One  blander  I  saw  and  shud 
dered  at.     The  hallucinating   rascal  had   printed  batterej 

*  This  is  shown  by  tlie  postmark  to  bo  an  error;  it  should  bo  1818. 
14* 


162  LETTERS   TO  WORDSWORTH. 

for  battened,  this  last  not  conveying  any  distinct  sense  to 
his  gaping  souL  The  Reader  (as  they  call  'em)  had  dis- 
covered it,  and  given  it  the  marginal  brand,  but  the  sub- 
Btitutory  n  had  not  yet  appeared,  I  accompanied  his 
notice  with  a  most  pathetic  address  to  the  printer  not  to 
neglect  the  correction.  I  know  how  such  a  blunder  would 
'batter  at  your  peace.'  With  regard  to  the  works,  the 
Letter  I  read  with  unabated  satisfaction.  Such  a  thint^ 
was  Avanted;  called  for.  The  parallel  of  Cotton  with 
Burns  I  heartily  approve.  Iz.  Walton  hallows  any  page 
in  which  his  reverend  name  appears.  '  Duty  archly  bend- 
ing to  purposes  of  general  benevolence'  is  exquisite.  The 
poems  I  endeavored  not  to  understand,  but  to  read  them 
with  my  eye  alone,  and  I  think  I  succeeded.  (Some  peo- 
ple will  do  that  when  they  come  out,  you'll  say.)  As  if  1 
were  to  luxuriate  to-morrow  at  some  picture-gallery  I  Avas 
never  at  before,  and  going  by  to-day  by  chance,  found  the 
door  open,  and  having  but  five  minutes  to  look  about  me, 
peeped  in ;  just  such  a  chastised  peep  I  took  with  my 
mind  at  the  lines  my  luxuriating  eye  was  coursino-  over 
unrestrained,  not  to  anticipate  another  day's  fuller  satis- 
faction. Coleridge  is  printing  '  Christabel,'  by  Lord 
Byron's  recommendation  to  Murray,  with  what  he  calls  a 
vision,  'Kubla  Khan,'  which  said  vision  he  repeats  so 
enchantingly  that  it  irradiates  and  brings  heaven  and  ely- 
sian  bowers  into  my  parlor  while  he  sings  or  says  it ;  but 
there  is  an  observation,  'Never  tell  thy  dreams,'  and  I 
am  almost  afraid  that  '  Kubla  Khan'  is  an  owl  that  won't 
bear  day-light.  I  fear  lest  it  should  be  discovered  by  the 
lantern  of  typography  and  clear  reducing  to  letters  no 
better  than  nonsense  or  no  sense.  When  I  was  j^oung, 
I  used  to  chant  with  ecstacy  '  Mild  Ai;cadian»  evkr 
BLOOJIING,'  till  somebody  told  me  it  was  meant  to  be  non- 


LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTH.  163 

sense.  Even  yet  I  have  a  lin;2:ering  attachment  to  it,  and 
I  think  it  better  tlian  'Windsor  Forest,'  'Dying  Chris- 
tian's Address,'  &c.  Coleridge  has  sent  his  tragedy  to 
D.  L.  T.  ;  it  cannot  he  acted  this  season,  and  by  their 
manner  of  receiving,  I  hope  lie  will  be  able  to  alter  it  to 
make  them  accept  it  for  next.  He  is,  at  present,  under 
the  medical  care  of  a  Mr.  Oilman  (Killman  ?)  at  High- 
gate,  where  he  plaj^s  at  leaving  ofi*  laud — m  ;  I  think  his 
essentials  not  touched ;  he  is  very  bad,  but  then  he  won- 
derfully picks  up  another  day,  and  his  face,  when  he  re- 
peats Lis  verses,  hath  its  ancient  glory ;  an  archangel  a 
little  damaged.  Will  Miss  11.  pardon  our  not  replying  at 
length  to  her  kind  letter  ?  We  are  not  quiet  enough ; 
Morgan  is  with  us  every  day,  going  betwixt  Highgate  and 
the  Temple.  Coleridge  is  absent  but  four  miles,  and  the 
neighborhood  of  such  a  man  is  as  exciting  as  the  presence 
of  fifty  ordinary  persons.  'Tis  enough  to  be  within  the 
whiff  and  Avind  of  his  genius  for  us  not  to  possess  our  souls 
in  quiet.  If  I  lived  with  him  or  the  Author  of  the  Ex- 
cursion,  I  should,  in  a  very  little  time,  lose  my  own  iden- 
tity, and  be  dragged  along  in  the  current  of  other  people's 
thoughts,  hampered  in  a  net.  How  cool  I  sit  in  this 
office,  with  no  possible  interruption  further  than  what  I 
may  term  material!  There  is  not  as  much  metaphysics 
in  thirty-six  of  the  people  here  as  there  is  in  the  first  pa  ffo 
of  Locke's  '  Treatise  on  the  Human  Understanding,'  or  as 
much  poetry  as  in  any  ten  lines  of  the  '  Pleasures  of 
Hope,'  or  more  natural  'Beggar's  Petition.'  I  never 
entangle  myself  in  any  of  their  speculations.  Interrup- 
tions, if  I  try  to  write  a  letter  even,  I  have  dreadful. 
Just  now,  within  four  lines,  I  was  called  off  for  ten  min- 
utes to  consult  dusty  old  books  for  the  settlement  of  obso- 
lete errors.     I  hold  you  a  guinea  you  don't  find  the  chasm 


164  LETTERS    TO    WORDSWORTIL 

Avliere  I  left  off,  so  excellently  the  wounded  sense  closed 
again,  and  -was  healed. 

''  N.B. — Nothing  said  above  to  the  contrary,  but  that  ] 
hold  the  personal  presence  of  the  two  mentioned  potent 
spirits  at  a  rate  as  high  as  any ;  but  I  pay  dearer ;  what 
amuses  others  robs  me  of  myself;  my  mind  is  positively 
discharged  into  their  greater  currents,  but  flows  with  a 
willing  violence.  As  to  your  question  about  work ;  it  is 
far  less  oppressive  to  me  than  it  was,  from  circumstances  ; 
it  takes  all  the  golden  part  of  the  day  away,  a  solid  lump, 
from  ten  to  four ;  but  it  does  not  kill  my  peace  as  before. 
Some  day  or  other  I  shall  be  in  a  taking  again.  My  head 
aches,  and  you  have  had  enough.     God  bless  you  ! 

"C.  Lamb." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  "  LONrON  MAGAZINE" — CHARACTER  AND  FATE  OF  MR.  JOHN  SCOTT,  ITS 
EDITOR — GLIMPSE  OP  MR.  THOMAS  GRIFFITHS  WAINWRIGHT,  ONE  OF  ITS 
CONTRIBUTORS — JIISCELLANEOUS  LETTERS  OP  LAMB  TO  WORDSWORTH,  COLE- 
RIDGE, AND    OTHERS. 

[1S18  to  1825.] 

Lamb's  association  with  Hazlitt  in  the  year  1820  intro- 
duced him  to  that  of  the  "London  Magazine,"  which 
supplied  the  finest  stimulus  his  intellect  had  ever  received, 
and  induced  the  composition  of  the  Essays  fondly  and 
familiarly  known  under  the  fantastic  title  of  Elia.  Never 
was  a  periodical  work  commenced  with  happier  auspices, 
numbering  a  list  of  contributors  more  original  in  thought, 
more  fresh  in  spirit,  more  sportive  in  fancy,  or  directed 
by  an  editor  better  qualified  by  nature  and  study  to  pre- 
side, than  this  "London."  There  was  Lamb,  Avith 
humanity  ripened  among  town-bred  experiences,  and  pa- 
thos matured  by  sorrow,  at  his  wisest,  sagest,  airiest,  in- 
discreetest,  best ;  Barry  Cornwall,  in  the  first  bloom  of 
nis  modest  and  enduring  fame,  streaking  the  darkest  pas- 
/sion  with  beauty ;  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  lighting  up 
the  wildest  eccentricities  and  most  striking  features  of 
many  colored  life  with  vivid  fancy  ;  and,  with  others  of 
less  note,  Hazlitt,  whose  pen,  unloosed  fi'oui  tlie  chain 
which  earnest  thought  and  metaphysical  dreamings  had 
woven,  gave  radiant  expression  to  the  results  of  the  soli- 
tary musings  of  many  years.     Over  these   contributora 

(165) 


1G()  "  LONDON  magazine" — JOHN   SCOTT. 

John  Scott  presided,  himself  a  critic  of  remarkable  can- 
dor, eloquence,  and  discrimination,  unfettered  bj  the  dog- 
mas of  contending  schools  of  poetry  and  art ;  apt  to  dis- 
cern the  good  and  beautiful  in  all ;  and  having,  as  editor, 
that  which  Kent  recognised  in  Lear,  Avhich  subjects  revere 
in  kings,  and  hojs  admire  in  schoolmasters,  and  contri- 
butors should  welcome  in  editors — authority/; — not  mani- 
fested in  a  worrying,  teasing,  intolerable  interference  in 
small  matters,  but  in  a  judicious  and  steady  superintend- 
ence of  the  whole  ;  with  a  wise  allowance  of  the  occasional 
excesses  of  Avit  and  genius.  In  this  respect,  Mr.  Scott 
differed  entirely  from  a  celebrated  poet,  who  was  induced, 
just  a  year  after,  to  undertake  the  Editorship  of  the  "New 
Monthly  Magazine,"  an  office  for  which,  it  may  be  said, 
with  all  veneration  for  his  poetic  genius,  he  was  the  most 
unfit  person  who  could  be  found  in  the  wide  world  of  let- 
ters— who  regarded  a  magazine  as  if  it  were  a  long  affi- 
davit, or  a  short  answer  in  Chancery,  in  which  the  abso- 
lute truth  of  every  sentiment  and  the  propriety  of  every 
jest  were  verified  by  the  editor's  oath  or  solemn  affirma- 
tion ;  who  stopped  the  press  for  a  week  at  a  comma ; 
balanced  contending  epithets  for  a  fortnight ;  and,  at  last, 
grew  rash  in  despair,  and  tossed  the  nearest,  and  often 
the  worst  article,  *'  unAvhipped  of  justice,"  to  the  impatient 
printer.  Mr.  Scott,  indeed,  Avas  more  fit  to  preside  over 
a  little  commonwealth  of  authors  than  to  hold  a  despotic 
rule  over  subject  contributors ;  he  had  not  the  airy  grace 
of  Jeffrey  by  which  he  might  give  a  certain  familiar  live- 
liness to  the  most  laborious  disquisitions,  and  shed  the 
glancing  light  of  fancy  among  party  manifestoes  ;  nor  the 
boisterous  vigor  of  Wilson,  riotous  in  poAver,  reckless  in 
wisdom,  fusing  the  production  of  various  intellects,  into 
one  brilliant  reflection  of  his  OAvn  master-mind  ;  and  it  Avas 


"  LONDON  magazine" — JOHN    SCOTT.  167, 

well  that  he  wanted  these  weapons  of  a  tyranny  which  Ins 
chief  contributors  were  too  original  and  too  sturdy  to 
endure.  He  heartily  enjoyed  his  position  ;  duly  appre- 
ciated his  contributors  and  himself;  and  when  he  gave 
audience  to  some  young  aspirant  for  periodical  honors  at 
a  late  breakfast,  amidst  the  luxurious  confusion  of  news- 
papers, reviews,  and  uncut  novels,  lying  about  in  fascina- 
ting litter,  and  carelessly  enunciated  schemes  for  bright 
successions  of  essays,  he  seemed  destined  for  many  years 
of  that  happy  excitement  in  which  thought  perpetually 
glows  into  unruffled  but  energetic  language,  and  is  assured 
by  the  echoes  of  the  world. 

Alas  !  a  few  days  after  he  thus  appeared  the  object  of 
admiration  and  envy  to  a  young  visitor,  in  his  rooms  in 
York  street,  he  was  stretched  on  a  bed  of  mental  agony — 
the  foolish  victim  of  the  guilty  custom  of  a  world  which 
would  have  laughed  at  him  for  regarding  himself  as  within 
the  sphere  of  its  opinion,  if  he  had  not  died  to  shame  it ! 
In  a  luckless  hour,  instead  of  seeking  to  oppose  the  bitter 
personalities  of  "Blackwood"  by  the  exhibition  of  a 
serencr  power,  ho  rushed  with  spurious  chivalry  into  a 
personal  contest ;  caught  up  the  weapons  which  he  had 
himself  denounced,  and  sought  to  unmask  his  opponents 
and  draw  them  beyond  the  pale  of  literary  courtesy ; 
plticed  himself  tlius  in  a  doubtful  position  in  which  he 
oould  neither  consistently  reject  an  appeal  to  the  conven- 
*:ional  arbitrament  of  violence  nor  embrace  it;  lost  his 
most  legitimate  opportunity  of  daring  the  unhallowed  stiife, 
and  found  another  with  an  antagonist  connected  with  the 
quarrel  only  by  too  zealous  a  friendship;  and,  at  last,  met 
his  death  almost  by  lamentable  accident,  in  the  uncertain 
glimmer  of  moonlight,  from  the  hand  of  one  who  went  out 
resolved  not  to  harm  him  !    Such  was  the  melancholy  re.-ult 


1G3  "LONDOX    magazine" — JOHN    SCOTT. 

— first  of  a  controversy  too  envenomed — and  afterwards  of 
enthralnient  in  usages,  absurd  in  all,  but  most  absurd 
when  applied  by  a  literary  man  to  a  literary  quarrel. 
Apart  from  higher  considerations,  it  may  befit  a  life 
destined  for  the  listless  excesses  of  gaiety  to  be  cast  on  an 
idle  brawl ;  "  a  youth  of  folly,  an  old  age  of  cards"  may 
be  no  great  sacrifice  to  preserve  the  hollow  truce  of  fash- 
ionable society ;  but  for  men  of  thought — whose  minds 
are  their  possession,  and  who  seek  to  live  in  the  minds  of 
others  by  sympathy  with  their  thoughts — for  them  to 
hazard  a  thoughtful  being  because  they  dare  not  own  that 
they  prefer  life  to  death — contemplation  to  the  grave — the 
preparation  for  eternity  to  the  unbidden  entrance  on  its 
terrors,  would  be  ridiculous  if  it  did  not  become  tragical. 
"  Sir,  I  am  a  metaphysician !"  said  Hazlitt  once,  when  in 
a  fierce  dispute  respecting  the  colors  of  Holbein  and  Van- 
dyke, AYords  almost  became  things  ;  "  and  nothing  makes 
an  impression  upon  me  but  abstract  ideas  ;"  and  woeful, 
indeed,  is  the  mockery  when  thinkers  condescend  to  be 
duellists  ! 

The  Magazine  did  not  perish  with  its  Editor ;  though 
its  unity  of  purpose  was  lost,  it  was  still  rich  in  essays  of 
surpassing  individual  merit  ;  among  which  the  masterly 
vindication  of  the  true  dramatic  style  by  Darley  ;  the 
articles  of  Gary,  the  admirable  translator  of  Dante  ;  jfhd 
the  "  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater,"  held  a 
distinguished  place.  Mr.  De  Quincy,  whose  youth  had 
been  inspired  by  enthusiastic  admiration  of  Coleridge, 
shown  in  contributions  to  "  The  Friend,"  not  unworthy  of 
his  master,  and  substantial  contributions  of  the  blessings 
of  fortune,  came  up  to  London,  and  found  an  admiring 
welcome  from  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey,  the  publishers 
into   whose  hands  the  "London  Magazine"  had  passed. 


THOMAS    GRIFFITHS    WAINWRIGHT.  169 

After  tbft  good  old- fashion  of  the  GREAT  TRADE,  these 
genial  booksellers  used  to  assemble  their  contributors 
round  their  hospitable  table  in  Fleet  street,  -where  Mr.  De 
Quincy  was  introduced  to  his  new  allies.  Among  the 
contributors  who  jijartook  of  their  professional  festivities, 
was  a  gentleman  whose  subsequent  career  has  invested 
the  recollection  of  his  appearances  in  the  familiarity  of 
SDcial  life  with  fearful  interest — Mr.  Thomas  Griffiths 
Wainwright.  He  was  then  a  young  man  ;  on  the  bright 
side  of  thirty  ;  with  a  sort  of  undress  'military  air,  and 
the  conversation  of  a  smart,  lively,  clever,  heartless,  vo- 
luptuous coxcomb.  It  was  whispered  that  he  had  been  an 
officer  in  the  Dragoons  ;  had  spent  more  than  one  fortune  ; 
and  he  now  condescended  to  take  a  part  in  periodical 
literature,  with  the  careless  grace  of  an  amateur  who  felt 
himself  above  it.  He  was  an  artist  also  ;  sketched  boldly 
and  griiphically ;  exhibited  a  portfolio  of  his  own  draw- 
ings of  female  beauty,  in  which  the  voluptuous  trembled 
on  the  borders  of  the  indelicate ;  and  seized  on  the  criti- 
cal department  of  the  Fine  Arts,  both  in  and  out  of  the 
Magazine,  undisturbed  by  the  presence  or  pretensions  of 
the  finest  critic  on  Art  who  ever  wrote — William  Hazlitt. 
On  this  subject,  he  composed,  for  the  Magazine,  under 
the  signature  of  "Janus  Weathercock,"  articles  of  flashy 
assumption — in  which  disdainful  notices  of  living  artists 
were  set  off  by  fascinating  references  to  the  personal  ap- 
pearance, accomplishments,  and  luxurious  appliances  of 
the  writer,  ever  the  first  hero  of  his  essay.  He  created  a 
new  sensation  in  the  sedate  circle,  not  only  by  his  braided 
surtouts,  jewelled  fingers,  and  various  neck-handkerchiefs, 
but  by  ostentatious  contempt  for  everything  in  the  world 
but  elegant  enjoyment.  Lamb,  who  delighted  to  find 
sympathy  in   dissimilitude,  fancied   that  he   really  liked 

15 


170  LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

him  ;  took,  as  he  ever  did,  the  genial  side  of  character ; 
and,  instead  of  disliking  the  rake  in  the  critic,  thouglit  it 
pleasant  to  detect  so  much  taste  and  good-nature  in  n 
fashionable  roue ;  and  regarded  all  his  vapid  gaiety, 
which  to  severer  observers  looked  like  impertinence,  as 
the  playful  effusion  of  a  remarkably  guileless  nature.  We 
lost  sight  of  him  Avhen  the  career  of  the  "  London  Mao;a- 
zine"  ended;  and  Lamb  did  not  live  to  learn  the  sequel 
of  his  history. 

In  1819,  Mr.  Wordsworth,  encouraged  by  the  extend- 
ing circle  of  his  earnest  admirers,  announced  for  publica- 
tion his  "  Peter  Bell" — a  poem  written  in  the  first  enthu- 
siasm of  his  system,  and  exemplifying,  amidst  beauty  and 
pathos  of  the  finest  essence,  some  of  its  most  startling 
peculiarities.  Some  wicked  jester,  gifted  with  more  inge- 
nuity and  boldness  than  wit,  anticipated  the  real  "  Simon 
Pure,"  by  a  false  one,  burlesquing  some  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  poet's  homeliest  style.  This  grave  hoax 
produced  the  following  letter  from  Lamb,  appropriately 
written  in  alternate  lines  of  red  and  black  ink,  till  the 
last  sentence,  in  which  the  colors  are  alternated,  word  by 
word — even  to  the  signature — and  "  Mary's  love,"  at  the 
close  ;  so  that  "  Mary"  is  black,  and  her  "  love"  red. 


TO    MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"1819. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — I  received  a  copy  of  '  Peter 
Bcir  a  week  ago,  and  I  hope  the  author  will  not  be  of- 
fended if  I  say  I  do  not  much  relish  it.  The  humor,  if 
it  is  meant  for  humor,  is  forced ;  and  then  the  price ! — 
sixpence  would  have   been   dear  for  it.     Mind  I  do  not 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  ITl 

mean  your  'Peter  Bell,' but  a  '  Peter  Bell,'  which  pre- 
ceded it  about  a  week,  and  is  in  every  bookseller's  shop 
window  in  London,  the  type  and  paper  nothing  differing 
from  the  true  one,  the  preface  signed  W.  W.,  and  the 
supplementary  preface  quoting  as  the  author's  words  an 
extract  from  the  supplementary  preface  to  the  'Lyrical 
Ballads.'  Is  there  no  law  against  these  rascals  ?  I  would 
have  this  Lambert  Simnel  whipt  at  the  cart's  tail.  Who 
started  the  spurious  '  P.  B.'  I  have  not  heard.     I  should 

euess,  one  of   the  sneerino; :  but  I  have  heard  no 

name  mentioned.  '  Peter  Bell'  (not  the  mock  one)  is  ex- 
cellent. For  its  matter  I  mean.  I  cannot  say  the  style 
of  it  quite  satisfies  me.  It  is  too  lyrical.  The  auditors 
to  whom  it  is  feigned  to  be  told,  do  not  arride  me.  I  had 
rather  it  had  been  told  me,  the  reader,  at  once.  '  Hart- 
leap  Weir  is  the  tale  for  me ;  in  matter  as  good  as  this, 
in  manner  infinitely  before  it,  in  my  poor  judgment.  Why 
did  you  not  add  '  The  Waggoner  ?' — Have  I  thanked  you, 
though,  yet,  for  'Peter  Bell?'  I  would  ^oi  not  have  it 
for  a  good  deal  of  money.  C is  very  foolish  to  scrib- 
ble about  books.  Neither  his  tongue  nor  fingers  are  very 
retentive.  But  I  shall  not  say  anything  to  him  about  it. 
lie  would  only  begin  a  very  long  story  with  a  very  long 
face,  and  I  see  him  far  too  seldom  to  teaze  him  with  affairs 
of  business  or  conscience  when  I  do  see  him.  He  never 
comes  near  our  house,  and  when  wc  go  to  see  him  he  is 
generally  writing,  or  thinking ;  he  is  writing  in  his  study 
till  the  dinner  comes,  and  that  is  scarce  over  before  the 
stage  summons  us  away.  The  mock  'P.  B.'  had  only  this 
effect  on  me,  that  after  twice  reading  it  over  in  hopes  to 
find  something  diverting  in  it,  I  reached  your  two  books 
off  the  shelf,  and  set  into  a  steady  reading  of  them,  till 
I  had  nearly  finished  both  before  I  went  to  bed.     The  two 


172  LETTER   TO   WORDSWORTH. 

of   your  last   edition,  of    course,   I  mean.     And  in   the 
morning  I  awoke,  determined  to  take  down  the  '  Excur- 
sion.'    I  wish  the  scoundrel  imitator  could    know  this. 
But  why  waste  a  wish  on  him  ?     I  do  not  believe   that 
paddling  about  with  a  stick  in  a  pond,  and   fishing  up   a 
dead  author,  whom  Ms  intolerable  wrongs  had   driven  to 
that  deed  of  desperation,  would  turn  the  heart  of  one  of 
these  obtuse  literary  Bells.     There  is  no  Cock  for  such 
Peters  ;  hang  'em  !     I  am  glad  this  aspiration  came  upon 
the  red  ink  line.     It  is  more  of   a  bloody  curse.     I  have 
delivered  over  your  other  presents  to  Alsager  and  G.  D. 
A.,  I  am  sure,  will  value  it,  and  be  proud   of  the  hand 
from  which  it  came.     To  G.  D.  a  poem  is  a  poem.     His 
own  as  good  as  anybody's,  and,  God  bless  him  !  anybody's 
as  good  as  his  own ;  for  I  do  not  think  he  has  the  most 
distant  guess  of  the  possibility  of  one  poem  being  better 
than  another.     The  gods,  by  denying  him  the  very  faculty 
itself   of   discrimination,   have  effectually  cut   off   every 
seed  of  envy  in  his  bosom.     But  with  envy,  they  excited 
curiosity  also  ;  and  if  you  wish  the  copy  again,  which  you 
destined  for  him,  I  think  I  shall   be  able  to   find  it  again 
for  you,  on  his  third  shelf,  where  he  stuffs   his   presenta- 
tion copies,  uncut,  in  shape  and  matter  resembling  a  lump 
of   dry  dust;    but  on  carefully  removing  that  stratum,  a 
thing  like  a  pamphlet  will  emerge.     I  have  tried  this  with 
fifty  different  poetical  works  that  have  been  given  G.  D. 
in   return   for  as  many  of   his  OAvn  performances,  and  I 
confess  I  never  had  any  scruple  in  taking  ????/  own  again, 
wherever  I  found  it,  shaking  the  adherences  off — and  by 
this  means  one  copy  of  'my  works'  served  for  G.  D. — and, 
with  a  little  dusting,  was  made  over  to  my  good   friend 
Dr.  G ,  who  little  thought  whose  leavings  he  was  tak- 
ing when  he  made  me  that   graceful  bow.     By  the  way 


LETTER    TO    COLERIDGE.  173 

the  Doctor  is  the  only  one  of  my  acquaintance  who  bows 
gracefully,  my  town  acquaintance,  I  mean.  How  do  you 
like  my  way  of  writing  with  two  inks  ?  I  think  it  is  pretty 
and  motley.  Suppose  Mrs.  W.  adopts  it,  the  next  time 
she  holds  the  pen  for  you.  My  dinner  waits.  I  have  no 
time  to  indulge  any  longer  in  these  laborious  curiosities. 
God  bless  you,  and  cause  to  thrive  and  burgeon  whatso- 
ever you  write,  and  fear  no  inks  of  miserable  poetasters. 
"  Yours  truly,  Charles  Lamb. 

"  Mary's  love." 

The  following  letter,  probably  written  about  this  time, 
is  entirely  in  red  ink. 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"  Dear  Coleridge. — A  letter  written  in  the  blood  of 
your  poor  friend  would  indeed  be  of  a  nature  to  startle 
you;  but  this  is  nought  but  harmless  red  ink,  or,  as  the 
witty  mercantile  phrase  hath  it,  clerk's  blood.  Hang  'em  ! 
my  brain,  skin,  flesh,  bone,  carcase,  soul,  time  is  all  theirs. 
The  Royal  Exchange,    Gresham's  Folly,  hath  me  body 

and  spirit.     I  admire  some  of 's  lines  on  you,  and  I 

admire  your  postponing  reading  them.  He  is  a  sad  tat- 
tler, but  this  is  under  the  rose.  Twenty  years  ago  he  es- 
tranged one  friend  from  me  quite,  whom  I  have  been  re- 
gretting, but  never  could  regain  since  ;  he  almost  alienated 
you  also  from  me,  or  me  from  you,  I  don't  know  which. 
But  that  breach  is  closed.  The  dreary  sea  is  filled  up. 
He  has  lately  been  at  work  '  telling  again,'  as  they  call  it, 
a  most  gratuitous  piece  of  mischief,  and  has  caused  a  cool- 
ness betwixt  me  and  a  (not  friend  exactly,  but)  intimate 
acquaintance.     I  suspect  also,  he  saps  Manning's  faith  in 

15* 


174  LETTER   TO    MISS   WORDSWORTH. 

me,  who  am  to  Manning  more  than  an  acquaintance.  Still 
I  like  his  writing  verses  about  you.  Will  your  kind  host 
and  hostess  give  us  a  dinner  next  Sunday,  and  better  still, 
not  expect  us  if  the  weather  is  very  bad.  Why  you 
should  refuse  twenty  guineas  per  sheet  for  Blackwood's  or 
any  other  magazine  passes  my  poor  comprehension.  But, 
as  Strap  says,  '  you  know  best.'  I  have  no  quarrel  with 
you  about  prceprandial  avocations,  so  don't  imagine  one. 
That  Manchester  sonnet*  I  think  very  likely  is  Capel 
Lofft's.     Another  sonnet  appeared  with  the  same  initials 

in  the  same  paper,  which  turned  out  to  be  P 's.  What 

do  the  rascals  mean  ?  Am  I  to  have  the  fathering  of 
what  idle  rhymes  every  beggarly  poetaster  pours  forth  ! 
Who  put  your  marine  sonnet '  about  Browne'  into  '  Black- 
wood ?'     I  did  not.     So  no  more,  till  we  meet. 

'Ever  yours,  C.  L." 

The  following  letter  (of  post-mark  1822)  is  addressed 
to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  when  Miss  Wordsworth 
was  visiting  her  brother,  Dr.  Wordsworth. 

TO    MISS    WORDSWORTH. 

"  Mary  perfectly  approves  of  the  appropriation  of  the 
feathers,  and  wishes  them  peacock's  for  your  fair  niece's 
sake. 

"1822. 

"Dear  Miss  Wordsworth. — I  had  just  written  the  above 

«^.ndearing  words  when  M tapped  me  on  the  shoulder 

with  an  invitation  to  cold  goose  pie,  which  I  was  not  bird 
of  that  sort  enough  to  decline.     Mrs.  M ,  I  am  most 

*  A  sonnet  in  "  Blackwood,"  dated  Manchester,  and  signed  C.  L. 


LETTER    TO    MISS    ^YORDSWOE,TH. .  175 

happy  to  sa}^,  is  better.  Mary  has  been  tormented  with 
a  rheumatism,  which  is  leaving  her.  I  am  suffering  from 
the  festivities  of  the  season.  I  wonder  how  my  misused 
carcase  holds  it  out.  I  have  played  the  experimental  phi- 
losopher on  it,  that's  certain.  Willy"^  shall  be  welcome  to 
a  mince-pie,  and  a  bout  at  commerce  whenever  he  comes. 
He  was  in  our  eye.  I  am  glad  you  liked  my  new  year's 
speculations,  everybody  likes  them,  except  the  author  of 
the  '  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  Disappointment  attend  him  ! 
How  I  like  to  be  liked,  and  ivliat  I  do  to  be  liked  !  They 
flatter  me  in  magazines,  newspapers,  and  all  the  minor 
reviews;  the  Quarterlies  hold  aloof.  But  they  must  come 
into  it  in  time,  or  their  leaves  be  waste  paper.  Salute 
Trinity  Library  in  my  name.  Two  special  things  are 
worth  seeing  at  Cambridge,  a  portrait  of  Cromwell,  at 
Sydney,  and  a  better  of  Dr.  Harvey,  (who  found  out  that 
blood  was  red)  at  Dr.  Davy's ;  you  should  see  them. 
Coleridge  is  pretty  well ;  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  hear 
often  of  him  from  Allsop,  who  sends  me  hares  and  phea- 
sants twice  a  week  ;  I  can  hardly  take  so  fast  as  he  gives. 
I  have  almost  forgotten  butcher's  meat,  as  plebeian.  Are 
you  not  glad  the  cold  is  gone  ?  I  find  winters  not  so 
agreeable  as  they  used  to  be  '  when  winter  bleak  had 
charms  for  me.'  I  cannot  conjure  up  a  kind  similitude 
for  those  snowy  flakes.     Let  them  keep  to  twelfth  cakes! 

"  Mrs.  P ,  our  Cambridge  friend,  has  been  in  town. 

You  do  not  know  the  W 's  in  Trumpington  Street. 

They  are  capital  people.     Ask  anybody  you  meet  who  is 
the   biggest  woman  in   Cambridge,   and   I'll  hold  you  a 

w^ager  they'll  say  Mrs. ;  she  broke  down  two  benches 

in  Trinity  gardens,   one   on  the  confines  of  St.  John's, 

*  Mr.  Wordsworth's  second  eon,  then  at  the  Charter-housa. 


176  LETTER   TO   "WILSON. 

wliich  occasioned  a  litigation  between  the  Societies  as  to 
repairing  it.  In  warm  weather  she  retires  into  an  ice- 
cellar  (literally !)  and  dates  the  returns  of  the  years  from 
a  hot  Thursday  some  tAventy  years  back.  She  sits  in  a 
room  with  opposite  doors  and  windows,  to  let  in  a  thorough 
draught,  which  gives  her  slenderer  friends  tooth-aches. 
She  is  to  be  seen  in  the  market  every  morning  at  ten 
cheapening  fowls,  which  I  observe  the  Cambridge  poulte- 
rers are  not  sufficiently  careful  to  stump. 

"  Having  now  answered  most  of  the  points  contained  in 
your  letter,  let  me  end  with  assuring  you  of  our  very  best 
kindness,  and  excuse  Mary  for  not  handling  the  pen  on 
this  occasion,  especially  as  it  has  fallen  into  so  much  bet- 
ter hands  !  Will  Dr.  W.  accept  of  my  respects  at  the  end 
of  a  foolish  letter?  C  L." 

The  following  letter  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson,  who  was 
composing  a  "Life  of  De  Foe,"  in  reply  to  inquiries  on 
various  points  of  the  great  novelist's  history,  is  dated  24th 
Feb.,  1823. 

TO    MR.  WALTER    WILSON. 

"  Dear  W. — I  write  that  you  may  not  think  me  neglect 
ful,  not  that  I  have  anything  to  say.  In  answer  to  your 
questions,  it  was  at  your  house  I  saw  an  edition  of  '  Rox- 
ana,'  the  preface  to  which  stated  that  the  author  had  left 
out  all  that  part  of  it  which  related  to  Roxana's  daughter 
persisting  in  imagining  herself  to  be  so,  in  spite  of  the 
mother's  denial,  from  certain  hints  she  had  picked  up,  and 
throwing  herself  continually  in  her  mother's  way  (as  Sa- 
vage is  said  to  have  done  in  the  Avry  cf  his,  prying  in  at 
windows  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her,)   and  that  it  was  by  ad- 


LETTER    TO    WILSON.  177 

Vice  of  Southern,  Avho  objected  to  the  circumstances  as 
being  untrue,  when  the  rest  of  the  story  was  founded  on 
fact;  wliich  shows  S.  to  have  been  a  stupid-ish  fellow. 
The  incidents  so  resemble  Savage's  story,  that  I  taxed 
Godwin  Avith  taking  Falkner  from  his  life  by  Dr.  Johnson. 
You  should  have  the  edition  (if  you  have  not  parted  with 
it),  for  I  saw  it  never  but  at  your  place  at  the  Mews'  Gate, 
nor  did  I  then  read  it  to  compare  it  with  my  own ;  only 
I  know  the  daughter's  curiosity  is  the  best  part  of  mi/ 
'Roxana.'  The  prologue  you  speak  of  was  mine,  and  so 
named,  but  not  worth  much.  You  ask  me  for  two  or  three 
pages  of  verse.  I  have  not  WTitten  so  much  since  you 
knew  me.  I  am  altogether  prosaic.  May  be  I  may 
touch  off  a  sonnet  in  time.  I  do  not  prefer  '  Colonel 
Jack'  to  either  '  Robinson  Crusoe'  or  '  Roxana.'  I  only 
spoke  of  the  beginning  of  it,  his  childish  history.  The 
rest  is  poor.  I  do  not  know  anyAvhere  any  good  charac- 
ter of  De  Foe  besides  wdiat  you  mention.*  I  do  not  know 
that  Swift  mentions  him  ;  Pope  does.  I  forget  if  D'ls- 
raeli  has.  Dunlop  I  think  has  nothing  of  him.  He  is 
quite  new  ground,  and  scarce  known  beyond  '  Crusoe.'  I 
do  not  know  who  wrote  '  Quarl.'  I  never  thought  of 
'  Quarl'  as  having  an  author.  It  is  a  poor  imitation  ;  the 
monkey  is  the  best  in  it,  and  his  pretty  dishes  made  of 
shells.  Do  you  knoAV  the  paper  in  the  '  Englishman'  by 
Sir  Richard  Steele,  giving  an  account  of  Selkirk  ?  It  is 
admirable,  and  has  all  the  germs  of  '  Crusoe.'  You  must 
quote  it  entire.     Captain  G.  Carleton  wrote  his  own  me- 

*  Those  who  wish  to  read  an  admirable  character  of  De  Foe,  associated 
■with  the  most  valuable  information  respecting  his  personal  history,  should  re- 
vert to  an  article  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review"  on  Do  Foe,  attributed  to  the 
author  of  the  "  Lives  of  the  Statesmen  of  the  Commonwealth,"  and  of  the 
delightful  "  Biogrnphy  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,"  almost  as  charming  as  its  sub-, 
ject. 


178  LETTER   TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

moirs,  tliej  are  about  Lord  Peterborough's  campaign  in 
Spain,  and  a  good  book.  '  Puzzelli'  puzzles  me,  and  I  am 
in  a  cloud  about  '  Donald  M'Leod.'  I  never  heard  of 
them  ;  so  you  see,  mj  dear  Wilson,  what  poor  assistances 
I  can  give  in  the  way  of  information.  I  wish  your  book 
out,  for  I  shall  like  to  see  anything  about  De  Foe  or  from 
you.  Your  old  friend,         C.  Lamb. 

"From  my  and  your  old  compound." 

The  following  is  the  fragment  of  a  letter  addressed  in 
the  beginning  of  1823  to  Miss  Hutchinson  at  Ramsgate, 
whither  she  had  e;one  vrith  an  invalid  relative. 


TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON. 

"April  25th,  1823. 

"  Dear  Miss  H. — It  gives  me  great  pleasure  (the  letter 
now  begins)  to  hear  that  you  got  down  so  smoothly,  and 

that  Mrs.  M 's  spirits  are  so  good  and  enterprising. 

It  shows  whatever  her  posture  may  be,  that  her  mind  at 
least  is  not  supine.  I  hope  the  excursion  will  enable  the 
former  to  keep  pace  with  its  outstripping  neighbor.  Pray 
present  our  kindest  wishes  to  her  and  all ;  (that  sentence 
should  properly  have  come  into  the  Postscript,  but  we 
airy  mercurial  spirits,  there  is  no  keeping  us  in).  '  Time' 
(as  was  said  of  one  of  us)  '  toils  after  us  in  vain.'  I  am 
afraid  our  co-visit  with  Coleridge  Avas  a  dream.  I  shall 
not  get  away  before  the  end  (or  middle)  of  June,  and 
then  you  will  be  frog-hopping  at  Boulogne  ;  and  besides, 
I  think  the  Gilmans  would  scarce  trust  him  with  us  ;  I 
have  a  malicious  knack  at  cutting  of  apron-strings.  The 
Saints'  days  you  speak  of  have  long  since  fled  to  heaven, 
with  Astrgea,  and  the  cold  piety  of  the  age  lacks  fervor 


LETTER    TO    MRS.    IIAZLITT.  179 

to  recall  them  ;  only  Peter  left  his  key — the  iron  one  of 
the  two  that  '  shuts  amain' — and  that  is  the  reason  I  am 
locked  up.  Meanwhile  of  afternoons  we  pick  up  prim- 
roses at  Dalston,  and  Mary  corrects  me  when  I  call  'em 
cowslips.     God  bless   you   all,  and   pray,  remember  me 

euphoniously  to  Mr.  G .     That  Lee  Priory  must  be  a 

dainty  bower.  Is  it  built  of  flints  ?  and  does  it  stand  at 
Kingsgate  ?" 

In  this  year.  Lamb  made  his  greatest  essay  m  house- 
keeping, by  occupying  Colebrook  Cottage  at  Islington,  on 
the  banks  of  his  beloved  New  River.  There  occurred 
the  immersion  of  George  Dyer  at  noontide,  which  sup- 
plies the  subject  of  one  of  "  The  Last  Essays  of  Elia ;" 
and  which  is  veritably  related  in  the  following  letter 
of  Lamb,  which  is  curious,  as  containing  the  germ  of 
that  delightful  article,  and  the  first  sketches  of  the 
Brandy-and  Water  Doctor  therein  celebrated  as  miracu- 
lous. 

TO  MRS.    HAZLITT, 

"  November,  1823. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  H. — Sitting  down  to  write  a  letter  is  such 
a  painful  operation  to  Mary,  that  you  must  accept  me  as 
her  proxy.  You  have  seen  our  house.  What  I  now  tell 
you  is  literally  true.  Yesterday  week,  George  Dyer 
called  upon  us,  at  one  o'clock,  {bright  noon  day)  on  his 
way  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Barbauld,  at  Newington.  He  sat 
with  Mary  about  half  an  hour,  and  took  leave.  The  maid 
saw  him  go  out,  from  her  kitchen  Avindow,  but  suddenly 
losing  sight  of  him,  ran  up  in  a  fright  to  Mary.  G.  D., 
instead  of  keeping  the  slip  that  leads  to  the  gate,  had 
deliberately,  staff  in  hand,  in  broad  open  day,  inarched 


180  LETTER    TO    MRS.    HAZLITT. 

into  the  New  River.  He  had  not  his  spectacles  on,  and 
you  know  his  absence.  Who  helped  him  out,  they  can 
hardly  tell,  but  between  'em  they  got  him  out,  drenched 
thro'  and  thro'.  A  mob  collected  by  that  time,  and  ac- 
companied him  in.  'Send  for  the  Doctor!'  they  said: 
and  a  one-eyed  fellow,  dirty  and  drunk,  was  fetched  from 
the  public-house  at  the  end,  where  it  seems  he  lurks,  for 
the  sake  of  picking  up  water-practice  ;  having  formerly 
had  a  medal  from  the  Humane  Society,  for  some  rescue. 
By  his  advice,  the  patient  was  put  between  blankets  ;  and 
when  I  came  home  at  four,  to  dinner,  I  found  G.  D.  a-bed, 
and  raving,  light-headed,  with  the  brandy-and  water  which 
the  doctor  had  administered.  He  sung,  laughed,  whim- 
pered, screamed,  babbled  of  guardian  angels,  would  get 
up  and  go  home ;  but  we  kept  him  there  by  force ;  and 
by  next  morning  he  departed  sobered,  and  seems  to  have 
received  no  injury.  All  my  friends  are  opencd-mouthed 
about  having  paling  before  the  river,  but  I  cannot  see, 
because  an  absent  man  chooses  to  walk  into  a  river,  with 
his  eyes  open,  at  midday,  I  am  any  the  more  likely  to  be 
drowned  in  it,  coming  home  at  midnight. 

"I  have  had  the  honor  of  dining  at  the  Mansion 
House,  on  Thursday  last,  by  special  card  from  the  Lord 
Mayor,  who  never  saw  my  face,  nor  I  his ;  and  all  from 
being  a  writer  in  a  magazine  !  The  dinner  costly,  served 
on  massy  plate,  champagne,  pines,  &c. ;  forty-seven  pres- 
ent, among  whom,  the  Chairman,  and  two  other  directors 
of  the  India  Company.  There's  for  you!  and  got  away 
pretty  sober  !     Quite  saved  my  credit ! 

"  We  continue  to  like  our  house  prodigiously.  Our 
kind  remembrances  to  you  and  yours. — Yours  truly, 

"  C.  Lamb. 

"  I  am  pleased  that  H.  liked  my  letter  to  the  Laureate.' 


LETTERS    TO    BARTON.  181 

Requested  by  the  Quaker  Poet,  to  advise  him  on  a  pro- 
posal for  appropriating  a  hirge  sura  of  money  raised  by  a 
few  admiring  friends  to  his  comfort  in  advancing  years, 
Lamb  gave  his  wise  and  genial  judgment  in  the  following 
letter 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"March  24th,  1824. 

Dear  B.  B. — I  hasten  to  say  that  if  my  opinion  can 
strengthen  you  in  your  choice,  it  is  decisive  for  your  ac- 
ceptance of  what  has  been  so  handsomely  offer'd.  I  can 
see  nothing  injurious  to  your  most  honorable  sense. 
Think  that  you  are  called  to  a  poetical  Ministry — nothing 
worse — the  Minister  is  worthy  of  the  hire.  The  only  ob- 
jection I  feel  is  founded  on  a  fear  that  the  acceptance 
may  be  a  temptation  to  you  to  let  fall  the  bone  (hard  as 
it  is)  which  is  in  your  mouth  and  must  afford  tolerable 
pickings,  for  the  shadow  of  independence.  You  cannot 
propose  to  become  independent  on  what  the  low  state  of 
interest  could  afford  you  from  such  a  principal  as  you 
mention  ;  and  the  most  graceful  excuse  for  the  acceptance, 
would  be,  that  it  left  you  free  to  your  voluntary  functions. 
That  is  the  less  light  part  of  the  scruple.  It  has  no 
darker  shade.  I  put  in  darker,  because  of  the  ambiguity 
of  the  word  light,  which  Donne  in  his  admirable  poem  on 
the  Metempsychosis,  has  so  ingeniously  illustrated  in  his 
invocation — 

12  1  2 

'Make  my  dark  hearij  poem,  liijJit  and  liijht.' 

where  two  senses  of  ligJtt  are  opposed  to  different  oppo- 
sites.  A  trifling  criticism.  I  can  see  no  reason  for  any 
scruple  then  but  what  arises  from  your  own  interest : 
which  is  in  your  own  power  of  course  to  solve.  If  you 
still  have  doubts,  read  over  Sanderson's  Cases  of  Con- 

16 


182  LETTERS    TO    BARTON. 

science,  and  Jeremy  Taylor's  Ductor  Dubitantium,  the 
first  a  moderate  octavo,  the  latter  a  folio  of  900  close 
pages,  and  Avhen  you  have  thoroughly  digested  the  ad- 
mirable reasons  pro   and  con  Avhich  they  give   for  every 

possible  case,  you  will  be just   as  wise  as  when  you 

began.  Every  man  is  his  own  best  Casuist :  and  after 
all,  as  Ephraim  Smooth  in  the  pleasant  comedy  of  '  Wild 
Oats,'  has  it,  'there  is  no  harm  in  a  Guinea.'  A  fortiori 
there  is  less  in  2000. 

"  I  therefore  most  sincerely  congratulate  with  you,  ex- 
cepting so  far  as  excepted  above.  If  you  have  fair  pros- 
pects of  adding  to  the  principal,  cut  the  Bank ;  but  in 
either  case  do  not  refuse  an  honest  Service.  Your  heart 
tells  you  it  is  not  offered  to  bribe  you  /rom  any  duty,  but 
to  a  duty  which  you  feel  to  be  your  vocation.  Farewell 
heartily.  C.  L." 


The  following,  with  its  grotesque  sketches,  is  addressed 
also 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"  December  1st,  1S24. 

"  Dear  B.  B. — If  Mr.  Mitford  will  send  me  a  full  and 
circumstantial  description  of  his  desired  vases,  I  will 
transmit  the  same  to  a  gentleman  resident  at  Canton, 
whom  I  think  I  have  interest  enough  in  to  take  the  pro- 
per care  for  their  execution.  But  ^Nlr.  M.  must  have 
patience.     China  is  a  great  way  off,  further  perhaps  thin 


LETTER    TO    MISS    IIUTCHIXSON.  183 

he  thinks  ;  and  his  next  year's  roses  must  be  content  to 
wither  in  a  Wedg\yood  pot.  He  will  please  to  say  whether 
he  should  like  his  arms  upon  them,  &c.  I  send  herewith 
some  patterns  which  suggest  themselves  to  me  at  the  first 
blush  of  the  subject,  but  he  Avill  probably  consult  his  own 
taste  after  all. 

The  last  pattern  is  obviously  fitted  for  ranunculuses  only. 
The  two  former  may  indifferently  hold  daisies,  marjoram, 
SAveet  Williams,  and  that  sort.  My  friend  in  Canton  is  In- 
spector of  Teas,  his  name  is  Ball ;  and  I  can  think  of  no 
better  tunnel.     I  shall  expect  Mr.  M.'s  decision. 

"  Taylor  and  Hessey  finding  their  magazine  goes  off 
very  heavily  at  2s.  Qd.  are  prudently  going  to  raise  their 
price  another  shilling ;  and  having  already  more  authors 
than  they  want,  intend  to  increase  the  number  of  them. 
If  they  set  up  against  the  New  Monthly,  they  must  change 
their  present  hands.  It  is  not  tying  the  dead  carcase  of 
a  Review  to  a  half-dead  Magazine  will  do  their  business. 
It  is  like  G.  D.  multiplying  his  volumes  to  make  'em  sell 
better.  When  he  finds  one  Avill  not  go  off",  he  publishes 
two  ;  two  sticks,  he  tries  three  ;  three  hang  fire,  he  is  con- 
fident that  four  will  have  a  better  chance.  C.  L." 

The  following  letter  to  Miss  Hutchinson  at  Torquay, 
refers  to  some  of  Lamb's  later  articles,  published  in  the 
"  London  Magazine,"  which,  in  extending  its  size  and  pre- 
tensions to  a  three-and-sixpenny  miscellany,  had  lost  much 
of  its  spirit.  He  exults,  however,  in  his  veracious  "  Me- 
moir of  Listen  !" 

TO    MISS   HUTCHINSON. 
"  The  brevity  of  this  is  owing  to  scratching  it  ofi"  at  my 
desk  amid  expected  interruptions.     By  habit,  I  can  write 
letters  only  at  office. 


184  LETTER   TO    MISS    HUTCHINSON 

"January  20ib,  1S25, 

"  Dear  Miss  H. — Thank  you  for  a  noble  goose,  which 
wanted  only  the  massive  incrustation  that  we  used  to  pick- 
axe open,  about  this  season,  in  old  Gloster  Place.  When 
shall  we  eat  another  goose  pie  together  ?  The  pheasant, 
too,  must  not  be  forgotten  ;  twice  as  big,  and  half  as  good 
as  a  partridge.  You  ask  about  the  editor  of  the  '  Lon- 
don ;'  I  knoAV  of  none.  This  first  specimen  is  flat  and  pert 
enough  to  justify  subscribers  who  grudge  t'other  shilling. 
De  Quincy's  '  Parody'  was  submitted  to  him  before  printed, 
and  had  his  Prohatum.^  The  '  Horns'  is  in  a  poor  taste, 
resembling  the  most  labored  papers  in  the  'Spectator.'  I 
had  signed  it  '  Jack  Horner  ;'  but  Taylor  and  Hessey  said 
it  would  be  thought  an  offensive  article,  unless  I  put  my 
known  signature  to  it,  and  wrung  from  me  my  slow  con- 
sent. But  did  you  read  the  '  Memoir  of  Listen  ?' — and 
did  you  guess  whose  it  was  ?  Of  all  the  lies  I  ever  put 
off,  I  value  this  most.  It  is  from  top  to  toe,  every  para- 
graph, pure  invention,  and  has  passed  for  gospel ;  has 
been  republished  in  ncAvspapers,  and  in  the  penny  play- 
bills of  the  night,  as  an  authentic  account.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly go  to  the  naughty  man  some  day  for  my  fibbings.  1\\ 
the  next  number  I  fio-ure  as  a  theologian  !  and  have  afe 
tacked  my  late  brethren,  the  Unitarians.  What  Jack 
Pudding  tricks  I  shall  play  next,  I  know  not ;  I  am  almost 
at  the  end  of  my  tether.  Coleridge  is  quite  blooming,  but 
his  book  has  not  budded  yet.  I  hope  I  have  spelt  Torquay 
right  now,  and  that  this  will  find  you  all  mending,  and 

*  Mr.  de  Quincy  bad  commenced  a  series  of  letters  in  the  "  London  Maga- 
zine," "To  a  Young  Man  whose  education  has  been  neglected,"  as  a  vehicle 
for  conveying  miscellaneous  information  in  his  admirable  style.  Upon  this 
hint  Lamb,  with  the  assent  which  Mr.  de  Quincy  could  well  afford  to  give, 
contributed  a  parody  on  the  scheme,  in  "A  Letter  to  an  Old  Gentleman  whose 
education  has  been  neglected." 


LETTER    TO    MANNING.  185 

looking  forward  to  a  Loudon  flight  with  the  Spring.  Win- 
tor,  tve  have  had  none,  hut  plenty  of  foul  weather.  I 
havx  lately  picked  up  an  epigram  which  pleased  me — 

"  '  Two  noble  earls,  whom  if  I  quote, 
Some  folks  might  call  me  sinner, 
The  one  invented  half  a  coat, 
The  other  half  a  dinner. 

The  plan  was  good,  as  some  will  say. 

And  fitted  to  console  one  ; 
Because  in  this  poor  starving  day, 

Few  can  afford  a  whole  one.' 

"  I  have  made  the  lame  one  still  lamer  by  imperfect 
memory ;  but  spite  of  bald  diction,  a  little  done  to  it  might 
improve  it  into  a  good  one.  You  have  nothing  else  to  do  at 
Torquay.  Suppose  you  try  it.  Well,  God  bless  you  all, 
as  wishes  Mary  most  sincerely,  with  many  thanks  for  let- 
ter, &c.  Elia." 

The  first  dawning  hope  of  Lamb's  emancipation  from 
the  India  house  is  suggested  in  the  following  note- to  Man- 
ning, proposing  a  visit,  in  which  he  refers  to  a  certificate 
of  non-capacity  for  hard  desk-AVork,  given  by  a  medical 
friend. 

TO    MR.    MANNING. 

"  My  dear  M. — You  might  have  come  inopportunely  a 
week  since,  when  we  had  an  inmate.  At  present  and  for 
as  long  as  ever  you  like,  our  castle  is  at  your  service.  I 
saw  T yesternight,  who  has  done  for  me  what  may 

'To  all  my  nights  and  days  to  come 

Give  solely  sovran  sway  and  masterdom.' 

But  I  dare  not  hope,  for  fear  of  disappointment.  I  can- 
not be  more  explicit  at  present.     Bat  I  have  it  under  hiii 

16* 


186  LETTER   TO  WORDSWORTH. 

own  hand,  tliat  I  am  wo?i-capacltated,  (I  cannot  write  it 

in-)  for  business.     0  joyous  imbecility  !  Not  a  susurra- 
tion of  tbis  to  anybody  ! 

"  Mary's  love.  C.  Lamb." 

The  dream  was  realised — in  April  1825,  the  "world- 
wearied  clerk"  went  home  for  ever — with  what  delight  has 
been  told  in  the  elaborate  raptures  of  his  "  Superannuated 
Man,"  and  in  the  letters  already  published.  The  follow- 
ing may  be  now  added  to  these  illucidative  of  his  too  brief 
raptures. 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTH. 

"  Dear  W. — I  write  post-haste  to  ensure  a  frank.  Thanks 
for  your  hearty  congratulations  !  I  may  now  date  from 
the  sixth  week  of  my  '  Hegira,  or  Flight  from  Leadenhall.' 
I  have  lived  so  much  in  it,  that  a  summer  seems  already 
past ;  and  'tis  but  early  May  yet  with  you  and  other  peo- 
ple. How  I  look  down  on  the  slaves  and  drudges  of  the 
■world  !  Its  inhabitants  are  a  vast  cotton-web  of  spin-spin- 
spinners  !  0  the  carking  cares  !  0  the  money-grubbers  ! 
Sempiternal  muckworms  ! 

"  Your  Virgil  I  have  lost  sight  of,  but  suspect  it  is  in 
the  hands  of  Sir  G.  Beaumont ;  I  think  that  circumstance 
made  me  shy  of  procuring  it  before.  Will  you  write  to 
him  about  it  ? — and  your  commands  shall  be  obeyed  to  a 

tittle. 

"  Coleridge  has  just  finished  his  prize  Essay,  by  which, 
if  it  get  the  prize,  he'll  touch  an  additional  100/.  I  fancy. 
His  book,  too,  ('  Commentary  on  Bishop  Leighton,')  is 
quite  finished,  and  penes  Taylor  and  Hessey. 

"  In  the  '  London'  which  is  just  out  (1st  May,)  are  two 
papers  entitled  the  '  Superannuated  Man,'   which  I   Avish 


LETTEK    TO  WORDSWOEXn.  187 

you  to  see ;  and  also,  1st  April,  a  little  thing  called  '  Bar- 
bara S  ,'  a  story  gleaned  from  Miss  Kelly.  The  L. 
M.,  if  you  can  get  it,  will  save  my  enlargement  upon  the 
topic  of  my  manumission. 

"  I  must  scribble  to  make  up  my  hiatus  crumence  ;  for 
there  are  so  many  ways,  pious  and  profligate,  of  getting 
rid  of  money  in  this  vast  city  and  suburbs,  that  I  shall 
miss  my  thirds.  But  coiiragio !  I  despair  not.  Your 
kind  hint  of  the  cottage  was  well  thrown  out ;  an  anchor- 
age for  age  and  school  of  economy,  when  necessity  comes  ; 
but  without  this  latter,  I  have  an  unconquerable  terror  of 
changing  place.  It  does  not  agree  with  us.  I  say  it  from 
conviction ;  else  I  do  sometimes  ruralise  in  fancy. 

"  Some  d — d  people  are  come  in,  and  I  must  finish  ab- 
ruptly. By  d — d,  I  only  mean  deuced.  'Tis  these  suitors 
of  Penelope  that  make  it  necessary  to  authorise  a  little  for 
gin  and  mutton,  and  such  trifles. 

"  Excuse  my  abortive  scribble. 

"  Yours,  not  in  more  haste  than  heart,  C.  L. 

"  Love  and  recollects  to  all  the  Wms.,  Doras,  Maries 
round  your  Wrekin. 

"  Mary  is  capitally  well.  Do  write  to  Sir  G.  B.,  for  I 
am  shyish  of  applying  to  him." 


CHAPTER  VIIT. 

LETTERS    OF   LAJIB'S    LAST   TEARS. 

[1825  to  1834.] 

How  imperfectly  the  emancipation,  so  rapturous-y 
hailed,  fulfilled  its  promises  ;  how  Lamb  left  Islington  for 
Enfield,  and  there,  after  a  while,  subsided  into  a  lodger ; 
and  how,  at  last,  he  settled  at  Edmonton  to  die,  suflBciently 
appear  in  the  former  series  of  his  letters.  Those  which 
occupy  this  chapter,  scattered  through  nine  years,  have 
either  been  subsequently  communicated  by  the  kindness 
of  the  possessors,  or  were  omitted  for  some  personal  rea- 
son which  has  lost  its  force  in  time.  The  followinfr,  ad- 
dressed  in  1829  to  the  Editor  on  occasion  of  his  giving  to 
a  child  the  name  of  "  Charles  Lamb,"  though  withheld 
from  an  indisposition  to  intrude  matters  so  personal  to 
himself  on  the  reader,  may  now,  on  his  taking  farewell  of 
the  subject,  find  its  place. 

TO    MR.    TALFOURD. 

"  Dear  Talfourd. — You  could  not  have  told  me  of  a 
more  friendly  thing  than  you  have  been  doing.  I  am 
proud  of  my  namesake.  I  shall  take  care  never  to  do  any 
dirty  action,  pick  pockets,  or  anyhow  get  myself  hanged, 
for  fear  of  reflecting  ignominy  upon  your  3'oung  Chrisom. 
I  have  now  a  motive  to  be  good.  I  shall  not  omnis 
mortar;  my  name  borne  down  the  black  gulf  of  oblivion. 

"  I  shall  survive  in  eleven  letters,  five  more  than  Cjesar. 
(188) 


LETTER    TO    TALFOURD.  189 

Possibly  I  shall   come   to  be  knighted,  or  more  !     Sir  C. 
L.  Talfourd,  Bart.  ! 

''Yet  hath  it  an  authorish  twang  Avlth  it,  which  Avill 
wear  out  with  my  name  for  poetry.  Give  him  a  smile 
iVom  me  till  I  see  him.  If  you  do  not  drop  down  before, 
some  day  in  the  weeh  after  next  I  will  come  and  take  one 
nio-ht's  lodging  with  you,  if  convenient,  before  you  go 
hence.  You  shall  name  it.  We  are  in  tOAvn  to-morrow 
speeiali  gratia,  but  by  no  arrangement  can  get  up  near 
you. 

"Believe  us  both,  Avith  greatest  regards,  yours  and 
Mrs.  Talfourd's. 

"  Charles  Lamb-Piiilo-Talfourd. 

"  I  come  as  near  it  as  I  can."* 

•  The  child  who  bore  the  name  so  honored  by  his  p.arents,  survived  his 
god-father  only  a  year — dying  at  Brighton,  whither  he  had  been  taken  in  the 
vain  hope  of  restoration,  on  the  3d  December,  1835.  Will  the  reader  forgive 
the  weakness  which  prompts  the  desire,  in  this  place,  to  link  their  memories 
together,  by  inserting  a  few  verses  which,  having  been  only  published  at  the 
end  of  the  last  small  edition  of  the  Editor's  dramas,  may  have  missed  soma 
of  the  friendly  eyes  for  wliidi  they  were  written? 

Our  gentle  Charles  has  pass'J  away, 

From  earth's  short  bondage  free, 
And  k'.'t  to  us  its  le;uJeu  day, 

And  oii.^t-enshrouded  sea. 

Here  by  the  ocean's  terraced  side, 

Sweet  hours  of  hope  were  known, 
When  first  the  triumph  of  its  tide 

Seem'd  omen  of  our  own. 

That  capper  joy  the  sea-breoze  gave, 

AVhmi  first  il;  raised  his  tiair, 
Sunk  with  each  day's  retiring  wave, 

Beyond  the  reacli  of  prayer. 

The  sun-blink  that  tlirough  drizzling  mist'. 

To  flickering  hope  akin, 
Lone  waves  with  feeble  fondness  kisa'd, 

No  smile  as  faint  can  win ; 


190  LETTERS   TO  BARTON. 

The  following  eight  Letters,  evoked  by  Lamb's  excel- 
lent and  indefatigable  correspondent,  Barton,  speak  for 
themselves : — 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"July  2d,  1S25. 

"  My  dear  B.  B. — My  nervous  attack  has  so  unfitted 
me  that  I  have  not  courage  to  sit  down  to  a  letter.     My 

Yet  not  in  vain  with  radiance  weak 
The  heavenly  stranger  gleams — 
Not  of  the  world  it  lights  to  spi?ak, 
But  that  from  whence  it  streams. 

That  world  our  patient  sufferer  sought, 

Serene  with  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  his  mounting  spirit  caught 

The  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

With  boundless  love  it  look'd  abroad 

For  one  bright  moment  given, 
Shone  with  a  loveliness  that  awed, 

And  quiver'd  into  Heaven. 

A  year  made  slow  by  care  and  toll 

Has  paced  its  weary  round, 
Since  Death  enrich'd  with  kindred  spoil 

The  snow-clad,  frost-ribb'd  ground. 

Then  Lamb,  with  whose  endearing  name 

Our  boy  we  proudly  graced. 
Shrank  from  the  warmth  of  sweeter  fame 

Thau  ever  hard  embraced. 

Still  'twas  a  mournful  joy  to  think 

Our  darling  might  supply, 
For  years  to  us,  a  living  link 

With  name  that  cannot  die. 

And  though  sucli  fancy  gleam  no  more 

On  earthly  sorrow's  niglit, 
Truth's  nobler  torch  unveils  the  shore 

Which  lends  to  both  its  light. 

The  nursling  there  that  hand  may  take, 

None  ever  grasp'd  in  vain, 
And  smiles  of  well-known  sweetness  wake, 

Without  their  tinge  of  pain. 


LETTERS   TO    BARTON.  191 

pool-  ])ittance  in  ilie  'London'  you  will  see  is  drawn  froni 
ray  sickness.  Your  book  is  very  acceptable  to  me,  because 
most  of  it  is  now  to  nie  ;  but  your  book  itself  we  cannot 
thank  you  for  more  sincerely  than  for  the  introduction 
you  favored  us  with  to  Anne  Knight.  Now  cannat  I 
write   jVi'S.  Anne   Knight  for  the  life  of  me.     She   is  a 

very  pleas ,  but  I  won't  write  all  we  have  said  of  her 

so  often  to  ourselves,  because  I  suspect  you  would  read  it 
to  her.  Only  give  my  sister's  and  my  kindest  remem- 
brances to  her,  and  how  glad  we  are  we  can  say  that  word. 
If  ever  she  come  to  Southwark  again,  I  count  upon  another 

Though,  'twixt  the  child  and  child-like  bard 

Late  seem'd  distinction  wide, 
They  now  may  trace,  in  Heaven's  regard, 

How  near  they  were  allied. 

Within  the  infant's  ample  brow 

Blythe  fancies  lay  unfurl'd, 
Which  all  uncrusb'd  may  open  now 

To  charm  a  sinless  world. 

Though  the  soft  spirit  of  those  eyes 

Might  ne'er  with  Lamb's  compete^ 
Ne'er  sparkle  with  a  wit  as  wise, 

Or  melt  in  tears,  as  sweet, 

The  nursling's  unforgotten  look 

A  kindred  love  reveals, 
With  bis  who  never  friend  forsook, 

Or  hurt  a  thing  that  feels. 

In  thought  profound,  in  wildest  glee, 

In  sorrow's  lengthening  range, 
His  guileless  soul  of  infancy 

Endured  no  spot  or  change. 

From  traits  of  each  our  love  receives 

For  comfort  nobler  scope ; 
While  light  which  child-like  genius  leaved 

Confirms  the  infant's  hope : 

And  in  that  hope  with  sweetness  fraugnt 

Be  aching  hearts  beguiled. 
To  blend  in  one  delightful  thought 

The  I'oet  and  the  Child  1 


192  LETTERS   TO   BARTON. 

pleasant  Bridge  walk  with  her.  Tell  her,  I  got  home 
time  for  a  rubber  ;  but  poor  Tryphena  will  not  understand 
that  phrase  of  the  worldlings. 

"I  am  hardly  able  to  appreciate  your  volume  now;  bui 
I  liked  the  dedication  much,  and  the  apology  for  your  bald 
burying  grounds.  To  Shelley,  but  that  is  not  new.  To 
the  young  vesper-singer,  Great  Bealings,  Playford,  and 
what  not  ? 

"  If  there  be  a  cavil,  it  is  that  the  topics  of  religious 
consolation,  however  beautiful,  are  repeated  till  a  sort  of 
triteness  attends  them.  It  seems  as  if  you  were  for  ever 
losing  friends'  children  by  death,  and  reminding  their 
parents  of  the  Resurrection.  Do  children  die  so  often, 
and  so  good  in  your  parts  ?  The  topic  taken  from  the 
consideration  that  they  are  snatched  away  from  possible 
vanities,  seems  hardly  sound ;  for  to  an  Omniscient  eye 
their  conditional  failings  must  be  one  with  their  actual ; 
but  I  am  too  unwell  for  theology.  Such  as  I  am, 
"I  am  yours  and  A.  K.'s  truly, 

"  C.  Lamb." 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"August  10th,  1825. 

"  We  shall  be  soon  again  at  Colebrook. 

"  Dear  B.  B. — You  must  excuse  my  not  writing  before, 
when  I  tell  you  we  are  on  a  visit  at  Enfield,  wVere  I  do 
not  feel  it  natural  to  sit  down  to  a  letter.  It  i6  at  all 
times  an  exertion.  I  had  rather  talk  Avith  you,  and  Anne 
Knight,  quietly  at  Colebrook  Lodge,  over  the  matter  of 
your  last.  You  mistake  me  when  you  express  mis.giving? 
about  my  relishing  a  series  of  scriptural  poems.  I  Avrote 
confusedly — what  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  one  or  two 


r.ETTEKS   TO    BARTON.  193 

consolatorj  poems  on  deaths  would  have  had  a  more 
condensed  effect  than  many.  Scriptural — devotional 
topics — admit  of  infinite  variety.  So  far  from  poetry 
tiring  me  because  religious,  I  can  read,  and  I  say  it  seri- 
ously, the  homely  old  version  of  tlie  Psalms  in  our  Prayer- 
books  for  an  hour  or  two  together  sometimes  without  sense 
of  weariness. 

"  I  did  not  express  myself  clearly  about  what  I  think  a 
false  topic  insisted  on  so  frequently  in  consolatory  ad- 
dresses on  the  death  of  infants.  I  know  something  like  it 
is  in  Scripture,  but  I  think  humanly  spoken.  It  is  a 
natural  thought,  a  sweet  fallacy  to  the  survivors — but  still 
a  fallacy.  If  it  stands  on  the  doctrine  of  this  being  a 
probationary  state,  it  is  liable  to  this  dilemma.  Omni- 
science, to  whom  possibility  must  be  clear  as  act,  must 
know  of  the  child,  what  it  would  hereafter  turn  out :  if 
good,  then  the  topic  is  false  to  say  it  is  secured  from  fall- 
ing into  future  wilfulness,  vice,  &c.  If  bad,  I  do  not  see 
how  its  exemption  from  certain  future  overt  acts,  by  being 
snatched  away  at  all  tells  in  its  favor.  You  stop  the  arm 
of  a  murderer,  or  arrest  the  finger  of  a  pickpurse,  but  is 
not  the  guilt  incurred  as  much  by  the  intent  as  if  never 
so  much  acted?  Why  children  are  hurried  off,  and  old 
reprobates  of  a  hundred  left,  whose  trial  humanly  we  may 
think  was  complete  at  fifty,  is  among  the  obscurities  of 
providence.  The  very  notion  of  a  state  of  probation  has 
darkness  in  it.  The  All-knower  has  no  need  of  satisfying 
his  eyes  by  seeing  what  we  will  do,  when  he  knows  before 
what  we  will  do.  Methinks  we  might  be  condemned 
before  commission.  In  these  things  we  grope  and  floun- 
der, and  if  we  can  pick  up  a  little  human  comfort  that  the 
child  taken  is  snatch'd  from  vice  (no  great  compliment  to 
it,  by  the  by)  let  us  take  it.  And  as  to  where  an  untried 
17 


194  LETTERS   TO   BARTO]?r. 

child  goes,  whether  to  join  the  assembly  of  its  elders  who 
have  borne  the  heat  of  the  day — fire-purified  martyrs,  and 
torment-sifted  confessors — what  know  we  ?  We  promise 
heaven,  methinks,  too  cheaply,  and  assign  large  revenues 
to  minors,  incompetent  to  manage  them.  Epitaphs  run 
upon  this  topic  of  consolation,  till  the  very  frequency  in- 
duces a  cheapness.  Tickets  for  admission  into  Paradise 
are  sculptured  out  at  a  penny  a  letter,  twopence  a  syllable, 
&c.  It  is  all  a  mystery,  and  the  more  I  try  to  express 
my  meaning  (having  none  that  is  clear),  the  more  I  floun- 
der. Finally,  write  what  your  own  conscience,  which  to 
you  is  the  unerring  judge,  deems  best,  and  be  careless 
about  the  whimsies  of  such  a  half-baked  notionist  as  I  am. 
We  are  here  in  a  most  pleasant  country,  full  of  walks,  and 
idle  to  our  heart's  desire.  Taylor  has  dropt  the  'Lon- 
don.' It  was  indeed  a  dead  weight.  It  has  got  in  the 
Slough  of  Despond.  I  shuffle  off  my  part  of  the  pack, 
and  stand  like  Christian  with  light  and  merry  shoulders. 
It  had  got  silly,  indecorous,  pert,  and  everything  that  is 
bad.  Both-  our  kind  remembrances  to  Mrs.  K.  and  your- 
self, and  strangers'-greeting  to  Lucy— is  it  Lucy  or  Ruth  ? — 
that  gathers  wise  sayings  in  a  Book.  C.  Lamb." 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"1S26. 

"  Dear  B.  B. — I  don't  know  why  I  have  delayed  so 
long  writing.  'Twas  a  fault.  The  under  current  of  ex- 
cuse to  my  mind  was  that  I  had  heard  of  the  vessel  in 
which  Mitford's  jars  were  to  come ;  that  it  had  been 
obliged  to  put  into  Batavia  to  refit  (wdiich  accounts  for  its 
delay),  but  was  daily  expected.  Days  are  past,  and  it 
comes  not,  and  the  mermaids  may  be  drinking  their  tea 
out  of  his  china  for  aught  I  know ;  but  let's  hope  not.    In 


LETTERS    TO    BARTON.  195 

the  meantime  I  have  paid  28/.,  &c.,  for  the  fi eight  and 
prime  cost.  But  do  not  mention  it.  I  was  enabled  to  do 
it  by  a  receipt  of  30Z.  from  Colburn,  Avith  whom,  hoAvever, 
I  have  done.  I  should  else  have  run  short.  For  I  just 
make  ends  meet.  We  will  wait  the  arrival  of  the  trin- 
kets, and  to  ascertain  their  full  expense,  and  then  bring 
in  the  bill. 

"  Colburn  had  something  of  mine  in  last  month,  which 
he  has  had  in  hand  these  seven  months,  and  had  lost,  or 
couldn't  find  room  for :  I  was  used  to  different  treatment 
in  the  '  London,'  and  have  foresworn  periodicals.  I  am 
going  thro'  a  course  of  reading  at  the  Museum :  the  Gar- 
rick  plajs,  out  of  part  of  which  I  have  formed  my  speci- 
mens.  I  have  two  thousand  to  go  thro' ;  and  in  a  few 
weeks  have  despatched  the  tythe  of  'em.  It  is  a  sort  of 
office  to  me  ;  hours,  ten  to  four,  the  same.  It  does  me 
good.  ^lan  must  have  regular  occupation,  that  has  been 
used  to  it. 

"  Will  you  pardon  my  neglect  ?  Mind,  again  I  say, 
don't  show  this  to  M. ;  let  me  wait  a  little  longer  to  know 
the  event  of  his  luxuries.  Heaven  send  him  his  jars  un- 
crack'd,  and  me  my . 

"  Yours,  with  kindest  wishes  to  your  daughter  and 
friend,  in  Avliich  Mary  joins,  C.  L." 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"1826. 

"  Dear  B.  B.— The  Biii<y  Bee,  as  Hood  after  Dr.  Watts 
apostrophises  thee,  and  well  dost  thou  deserve  it  for  tliy 
labors  in  the  Muses'  gardens,  wandering  over  parterres 
of  Think-on-mes  and  Forget-me-nots,  to  a  total  impossi- 
bility of    forgetting    thee, — thy   letter    was    acceptable, 


196  LETTERS    TO    BAllTON. 

thy  scruples  may  be  dismissed,  thou  art  rectus  in  cuira^ 
not  a  Avord  more  to  be  said,  verbum  sapienti,  and  so  forth, 
the  matter  is  decided  Avith  a  Avliite  stone,  classically,  mark 
me,  and  the  apparitions  vanished  which  haunted  me,  only 
the  cramp,  Caliban's  distemper,  clawing  me  in  the  calvish 
part  of  my  nature,  makes  me  ever  and  anon  roar  bullishly, 
squeak  cowardishly,  and  limp  cripple-ishly.  Do  I  write 
quakerly  and  simply,  'tis  my  most  Master  Mathews'  like 
intention  to  do  it.  See  Ben  Johnson. — I  think  you  told 
me  your  acquaintance  with  the  Drama  was  confin'd  to 
Shakspeare  and  Miss  Baillie :  some  read  only  Milton  and 
Croly.  The  gap  is  as  from  an  ananas  to  a  turnip.  I 
have  fighting  in  my  head  the  plots,  characters,  situations, 
and  sentiments  of  400  old  plays  (bran  new  to  me)  which  I 
have  been  digesting  at  the  Museum,  and  my  appetite 
sharpens  to  twice  as  many  more,  which  I  mean  to  course 
over  this  winter.  I  can  scarce  avoid  dialogue  fashion  in 
this  letter.  I  soliloquise  my  meditations,  and  habitually 
speak  dramatic  blank  verse  without  meaning  it.  Do  you 
see  Mitford  ?  He  will  tell  you  something  of  my  labors. 
Tell  him  I  am  sorry  to  have  missed  seeing  him,  to  have 
talked  over  those  old  Treasures.  I  am  still  more  sorry 
for  his  missing  Pots.  But  I  shall  be  sure  of  the  earliest 
intelligence  of  the  Lost  Tribes.  His  Sacred  Specimens 
are  a  thankful  addition  to  my  shelves.  Marry,  I  could 
wish  he  had  been  more  careful  of  corrigenda.  I  have  dis- 
cover'd  certain  which  have  slipt  his  errata.  I  put  'em  in 
the  next  page,  as  perhaps  thou  cansi  *iransmit  them  to 
him.  For  what  purpose,  but  to  grieve  him  (which  jet  I 
should  be  sorry  to  do),  but  then  it  shows  my  learning,  and 
the  excuse  is  complimentary,  as  it  implies  their  correction 
in  a  future  edition.  His  own  things  in  the  book  are  mag- 
nificent, and  as  an  old  Christ's  Hospitaller  I  was  particu- 


LETTERS   TO   BARTON.  197 

larly  refresh'd  with  his  eulogy  on  our  Edward.  Many 
of  the  choice  excerpta  were  new  to  me.  Old  Christmas 
is  a  coming,  to  the  confusion  of  Puritans,  Muggletonians, 
Anabaptists,  Quakers,  and  that  unwassailing  crew.  He 
Cometh  not  with  his  wonted  gait,  he  is  shrunk  nine  inches 
in  his  girth,  but  is  yet  a  lusty  fellow\  Hood's  book  is 
mighty  clever,  and  went  off  600  copies  the  first  day. 
Sion's  Songs  do  not  disperse  so  quickly.  The  next  leaf 
is  for  Rev.  J.  M.  In  this  adieu,  thine  briefly,  in  a  tall 
friendship.  0.  Lamb." 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"  June  11,  1S27. 

"  Dear  B.  B. — Martin's  '  Belshazzar'  (the  picture)  I  have 
seen.  Its  architectural  effect  is  stupendous,  but  the  hu- 
man figures,  the  squalling  contorted  little  antics  that  are 
playing  at  being  frightened,  like  children  at  a  sham  ghost, 
who  half  know  it  to  be  a  mask,  are  detestable.  Then  the 
letters  are  nothing  more  than  a  transparency  lighted  up, 
such  as  a  Lord  might  order  to  be  lit  up  on  a  sudden  at  a 
Christmas  gambol,  to  scare  the  ladies.  The  ty^ye  is  as 
plain  as  Baskerville's — they  should  have  been  dim,  full  of 
mystery,  letters  to  the  mind  rather  than  the  eye. 

"  Rembrandt  has  painted  only  Belshazzar  and  a  cour- 
tier or  two,  (taking  a  part  of  the  banquet  for  the  whole) 
not  fribbled  out  a  mob  of  fine  folks.  Then  everything  is 
so  distinct,  to  the  very  necklaces,  and  that  foolish  little 
prophet.  What  one  point  is  there  of  interest  ?  The  ideal 
of  such  a  subject  is,  that  you  the  spectator  should  see 
nothing  but  what  at  the  time  you  Avould  hav'C  seen — the 
hand,  and  the  King — not  to  be  at  leisure  to  make  tailor- 
17* 


1&8  LETTERS    TO    BARTON. 

remarks  on  the  dresses,  or,  Dr.  Kitchener-like,  to  examine 
the  good  things  at  tahle. 

"Just  such  a  confused  piece  is  his  'Joshua,'  frittered 
into  a  thousand  fragments,  little  armies  here,  little  armies 
there — you  should  see  only  the  Sun  and  Joshua.  If  I  re- 
member, he  has  not  left  out  that  luminary  entirely,  but 
for  Joshua,  I  was  ten  minutes  a  finding  him  out.  Still  he 
is  showy  in  all  that  is  not  the  human  figure  or  the  preter- 
natural interest :  but  the  first  are  below  a  drawing  school 
girl's  attainment,  and  the  last  is  a  phantasmagoric  trick — 
'  Now  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see,  dare  is  Belshazar 
and  dare  is  Daniel.' 

"  You  have  my  thoughts  of  M.,  and  so  adieu ! 

"  C.  Lamb." 

TO   BERNARD   BARTON. 

"1S27. 
"  My  dear  B.  B. — You  will  understand  my  silence  when 
I  tell  you  that  my  sister,  on  the  very  eve  of  entering  into 
a  new  house  we  have  taken  at  Enfield,  was  surprised  with 
an  attack  of  one  of  her  sad  long  illnesses,  which  deprive 
me  of  her  society,  though  not  of  her  domestication,  for 
eight  or  nine  weeks  together.  I  see  her,  but  it  does  her 
no  good.  But  for  tliis,  we  have  the  snuggest,  most  com- 
fortable house,  with  everything  most  compact  and  desira- 
ble. Colebrook  is  a  wilderness.  The  books,  prints,  &c., 
are  come  here,  and  the  New  Ptiver  came  down  with  us. 
The  familiar  prints,  the  bust,  the  Milton,  seem  scarce  to 
have  changed  their  rooms.  One  of  her  last  observations 
was  'how  frightfully  like  this  room  is  to  our  room  in 
Islington' — our  up-stairs  room,  she  meant.  How  I  hope 
you  will  come  some  better  day,  and  judge  of  it !  We  have 
lri(;d  quiet  here  for  four  months,  and  I  will  answer  for  the 
comfort  of  it  enduring. 


LETTERS    TO    BARTON.  199 

"  On  emptying  my  bookshelves  I  found  an  Ulysses, 
which  I  will  send  to  A.  K.  -wlien  I  go  to  town,  for  her  ac- 
ceptance— unless  the  book  be  out  of  print.  One  likes  to 
have  one  copy  of  everything  one  does.  I  neglected  to 
keep  one  of  '  Poetry  for  Children,'  the  joint  production 
of  Mary  and  me,  and  it  is  not  to  be  had  for  love  or  mo- 
ney. It  had  in  the  title  page  '  by  the  Author  of  ISIrs. 
Lester's  School.'  Know  you  any  one  that  has  it,  and 
would  exchange  it  ? 

"  Strolling  to  Waltham  Cross  the  other  day,  I  hit  off 
these  lines.  It  is  one  of  the  Crosses  which  Edward  I. 
caused  to  be  built  for  his  wife  at  every  town  where  her 
corpse  rested  between  Northamptonshire  and  London. 

"  A  stately  cross  each  sad  spot  cloth  attest, 
M'hereat  the  corpse  of  Eleanor  did  rest, 
From  Herdby  feteh'd — her  spouse  so  honor'd  her — 
To  sleep  with  royal  dust  at  Westminster. 
And,  if  less  pompous  obsequies  were  thine, 
Duke  Brunswick's  daughter,  princely  Caroline, 
Grudge  not,  great  ghost,  nor  count  thy  funeral  losses  : 
Thou  in  thy  life-time  had'st  thy  share  of  crosses. 

"  My  dear  B.  B. 

"  My  head  aches  with  this  little  excursion. 
"  Pray  accept  two  sides  for  three  for  once, 
"  And  believe  mo 

"  Yours  sadly,  C.  L." 

"Chase  Side,  Enfield." 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"1827 

"My  dear  B. — We  arc  all  pretty  well  again  and  com- 
fortable, and  I  take  a  first  opportunity  of  sending  the 
Adventures  of  Ulysses,  hoping  that  among  us — Homer, 
Chapman,  and  Co. — we  shall  afford  you  some  pleasure. 


200  LETTERS   TO    BARTON. 

I  fear  it  is  out  of  print ;  if  not,  A.  K.  will  accept  it,  with 
wishes  it  were  bigger ;  if  another  copy  is  not  to  be  had, 
it  reverts  to  me  and  my  heirs /or  ever.  AVith  it  I  send  a 
trumpery  book ;  to  which,  without  my  knowledge,  the 
editor  of  the  Bijoux  has  contributed  Lucy's  verses;  I  am 
asham'd  to  ask  her  acceptance  of  the  trash  accompanying 
it.  Adieu  to  Albums — for  a  great  while — I  said  when  I 
came  here,  and  had  not  been  fixed  for  two  days,  but  my 
landlord's  daughter  (not  at  the  Pot  house)  requested  me 
to  write  in  her  female  friends',  and  in  her  own ;  if  I  go 

to ,  thou  art  there  also,  0  all  pervading  Album  !    All 

over  the  Leeward  Islands,  in  Newfoundland,  and  the  Back 
Settlements,  I  understand  there  is  no  other  reading. 
They  haunt  me.     I  die  of  Albophobia !  C.  L." 


TO   BERNARD    BARTON. 

"1827. 

"  My  dear  B.  B. — A  gentleman  I  never  saw  before 
brought  me  your  welcome  present — imagine  a   scraping, 
fiddling,  fidgetting,  petit-maitre  of  a  dancing  school  ad- 
vancing into  my  plain  parlour  with  a  coupee  and  a  side- 
ling bow,  and  presenting  the  book  as  if  he  had  been  hand- 
ing a  glass  of  lemonade  to  a  young  miss — imagine   this, 
and  contrast  it  with  the  serious  nature  of  the  book  pre- 
sented !     Then  task  your  imagination,  reserving  this  pic- 
ture, to  conceive  of  quite  an  opposite  messenger,  a  lean, 
strait-locked,   whey-faced  Methodist,  for  such  was  he  in 
reality  who  brought  it,  the  Genius  (it  seems)  of  the  Wes- 
leyan  Magazine.     Certes,  friend  B.,  thy  Widow's  Tale  is 
too  horrible,  spite  of  the  lenitives  of  Religion,  to  embody 
in  verse ;  I  hold  prose  to  be  the  appropriate  expositor  of 
such  atrocities !     No  offence,  but  it  is  a  cordial  that  makes 


LETTERS    TO    BARTON.  201 

the  heart  sick.  Still  thy  skill  in  compounding  it  I  do  not 
deny.  I  turn  to  what  gave  me  less  mingled  pleasure.  I 
find  mark'd  -with  pencil  these  pages  in  thy  pretty  book, 
and  fear  I  have  been  penurious. 


"  Page  52,    53— Capital. 

"  59 — 6th  stanza,  exquisite  simile. 

*'  61 — 11th  stanza,  equally  good. 

"  108 — 3d  stanza,  I  long  to  see  Van  Balen. 

"  111 — A  downright  good  sonnet.     Dixi. 

"  153 — Lines  at  the  bottom. 

So  you  see,  I  read,  hear,  and  mark,  if  I  don't  learn.  In 
short  this  little  volume  is  no  discredit  to  any  of  your 
former,  and  betrays  none  of  the  senility  you  fear  about. 
Apropos  of  Van  Balen,  an  artist  who  painted  me  lately, 
had  painted  a  blackamoor  praying,  and  not  filling  his  can- 
vas, stuffed  in  his  little  girl  aside  of  blackey,  gaping  at 
him  unmeaningly ;  and  then  did'nt  know  what  to  call  it. 
Now  for  a  picture  to  be  promoted  to  the  Exhibition  (Suf- 
folk Street)  as  Historical,  a  subject  is  requisite.  What 
does  me?  I  but  christen  it  the  'Young  Catechist'  and 
furbish'd  it  with  dialogue  following,  which  dubb'd  it  an 
Historical  Painting.     Nothino;  to  a  friend  at  need. 


"While  tins  tawny  Ethiop  prayetb, 
Painter,  who  is  she  that  stayeth 
By,  with  skin  of  whitest  lustre j 
Sunny  locks,  a  shining  cluster; 
Saint-like  seeming  to  direct  him 
To  the  Power  that  must  protect  him? 
Is  she  of  the  heav'n-born  Three, 
Meek  Hope,  strong  Failh,  sweet  Charity? 
Or  some  Cherub? 


202  LETTERS    TO    EARTON. 

They  you  mention 
Far  transcend  m)'  weak  invention. 
'Tis  a  simple  Christian  child, 
Missionary  young  and  mild, 
From  her  store  of  script'ral  knowledge, 
(Bible-taught,  without  a  college) 
Which  by  reading  she  could  gather, 
Teaches  him  to  say  Our  Father 
To  the  common  Parent,  who 
Colour  not  respects,  nor  hue. 
White  and  black  in  him  have  part. 
Who  looks  not  to  the  skin,  but  heart. 

When  I'd  done  it,  the  artist  (who  had  dapt  in  Miss  merely 
as  a  fill-space)  swore  I  exprest  his  full  meaning,  and  the 
damosel  bridled  up  into  a  missionary's  vanity.  I  like 
verses  to  explain  pictures ;  seldom  pictures  to  illustrate 
poems.  Your  woodcut  is  a  rueful  lignum  mortis.  By 
the  by,  is  the  widow  likely  to  marry  again? 

"  I  am  giving  the  fruit  of  my  old  play  reading  at  the 
Museum  to  Hone,  who  sets  forth  a  portion  weekly  in  the 
Table  Book.  Do  you  see  it?  IIow  is  Mitford  ?  I'll  just 
hint  that  the  pitcher,  the  cord  and  the  bowl  are  a  little 
too  often  repeated  (passim)  in  your  book,  and  that  in  page 
17,  last  line  but  4,  hhn  is  put  for  he,  but  the  poor  widow 
I  take  it  had  small  leisure  for  grammatical  niceties.  Don't 
you  see  there's  he,  myself,  and  him;  why  not  both  him? 
likewise  imperviously  is  cruelly  spelt  imperiously.  These 
are  trifles,  and  I  honestly  like  your  book  and  you  for  giv- 
ing it,  though  I  really  am  ashamed  of  so  many  presents. 
I  can  think  of  no  news,  therefore  I  Avill  end  with  mine 
and  Mary's  kindest  remembrances  to  you  and  yours, 

"C.  L." 

While  Lamb  was  residing  at  Enfield,  the  friendship 
which,  in  1824,  he  had  formed  wdth  Mr.  Moxon,  led  to 
very  frequent  intercourse,  destined,  in  after  years,  to  be 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON. 


203 


k 


rendered  habitual,  by  the  marriage  of  liis  friend  ivitli  the 
young  lady  whom  he  regarded  almost  as  a  daughter.  In 
1828  Mr.  Moxon,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Hurst,  of  the 
firm  of  Hurst,  Chance,  and  Co.,  applied  to  Lamb  to  sup- 
ply an  article  for  the  "Keepsake,"  which  he,  always  dis- 
liking the  flimsy  elegancies  of  the  Annuals — sadly  op- 
posed to  his  own  exclusive  taste  for  old,  standard,  moth- 
eaten  books — thus  declined  : — 

TO   MR.    MOXON. 

"  March  19th,  1828. 

"  My  dear  M. — It  is  my  firm  determination  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  'Forget-me-Nots' — pray  excuse  me  as 
civilly  as  you  can  to  Mr.  Hurst.  I  will  take  care  to  re- 
fuse any  other  applications.  The  things  which  Pickering 
has,  if  to  be  had  again,  I  have  promised  absolutely,  you 
know,  to  poor  Hood,  from  whom  I  had  a  melancholy  epis- 
tle yesterday ;  besides  that  Emma  has  decided  objections 
to  her  own  and  her  friend's  Album  verses  being  pub- 
lished; but  if  she  gets  over  that,  they  are  decidedly 
Hood's. 

"  Till  we  meet,  farewell.     Loves  to  Dash.*      C.  L." 

The  following  introduced  Mr.  Patmore  to  Mr.  Moxon  : — 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"  May  3d,  1828. 

"  Dear  M.. — My  finend  Patmore,  author  of  the  '  Months,' 
a  very  pretty  publication — of  sundry  Essays  in  the  '  Lon- 
don,' 'New  Monthly,'  &c.,  wants  to  dispose  of  a  volume 

*  The  great  dog,  which  was,  at  one  time,  the  constant  companit  n  of  hi« 
long  walks. 


204  LETTER   TO    BARTON. 

or  two  of  '  Tales.'  Perhaps  thej  might  chance  to  suit 
Hurst ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  he  will  call  upon  you,  un- 
der favour  of  my  recommendation  ;  and  as  he  is  return- 
ing to  France,  where  he  lives,  if  you  can  do  anything  for 
him  in  the  Treaty  line,  to  save  him  dancing  over  the 
Channel  every  week,  I  am  sure  you  will.  I  said  I'd 
never  trouble  you  again ;  but  how  vain  are  the  resolves 
of  mortal  man !  P.  is  a  very  hearty  friendly  good  fel- 
low— and  was  poor  John  Scott's  second,  as  I  will  be  yours 
when  you  want  one.     May  you  never  be  mine  ! 

"  Yours  truly,  C.  L." 

"  Enfield." 

The  following  letter  exemplifies  some  of  the  most  re- 
markable peculiarities  of  thought  and  intellectual  senti- 
ment which  streaked,  without  darkening,  Lamb's  evening 
of  life. 

TO    BERNARD   BARTON. 

"March  25th,  1829. 

'^  Dear  B.  B. — I  have  just  come  from  Town,  where  I 
have  been  to  get  my  bit  of  quarterly  pension.  And  have 
brought  home,  from  stalls  in  Barbican,  the  old  '  Pilgrim's 
Progress,'  with  the  prints — Vanity  Fair  &c. — now  scarce. 
Four  shillings.  Cheap.  And  also  one'  of  whom  I  have 
oft  heard  and  had  dreams,  but  never  saw  in  the  flesh — 
that  is  in  sheepskin — '  The  whole  theologic  works  of 

Thomas  Aquinas !' 

My  arms  ached  with  lugging  it  a  mile  to  the  stage,  but  the 
burden  was  a  pleasure,  such  as  old  Anchises  was  to  the 
shoulders  of  ^neas — or  the  Lady  to  the  Lover  in  old  ro- 
mance, who  having  to  carry  her  to  the  top  of  a  high  moun- 


LETTERS   TO    CCLERIDGE.  205 

tain — the  price  of  obtaining  lier — clambered  with  her  to  the 
top,  and  fell  dead  with  fatigue. 

*  0,  the  glorious  old  Schoolmen  !' 

There  must  be  something  in  him.  Such  great  names  im- 
ply greatness.  Who  hath  seen  Michael  Angelo's  things — 
of  us  that  never  pilgrimaged  to  Rome — and  yet  which  of 
us  disbelieves  his  greatness  ?  How  I  will  revel  in  his  cob- 
webs and  subtleties,  till  my  brain  spins  ! 

"N.  B.  I  have  writ  in  the  Old  Hamlet — offer  it  to 
Mitford  in  my  name,  if  he  have  not  seen  it.  'Tis  woefully 
below  our  editions  of  it.     But  keep  it,  if  you  like. 

"  I  do  not  mean  this  to  go  for  a  letter,  only  to  apprize 
you,  that  the  parcel  is  booked  for  you  this  25th  March, 
1829,  from  the  Four  Swans,  Bishopsgate.  With  both 
our  loves  to  Lucy  and  A.  K., 

"Yours  ever,  C.  L." 

The  following  notes,  undated,  but  of  about  1829,  were 
addressed  to  Coleridge  under  the  genial  care  of  Mr.  Gil- 
man  at  Highgate : 

TO    MR.  COLERIDGE. 

"  Dear  C. — Your  sonnet  is  capital.  The  paper  ingeni- 
ous,* only  that  it  split  into  four  parts  (besides  a  side  splin- 
ter) in  the  carriage.  I  have  transferred  it  to  the  common 
English  paper,  manufactured  of  rags,  for  better  preserva 
tion.  I  never  knew  before  how  the  '  Iliad'  and  '  Odyssey' 
were  written.  'Tis  strikingly  corroborated  by  observa- 
tions on  Cats.  These  domestic  animals,  put  'em  on  a  rug 
before  the  fire,  wink  their  eyes  up,  and  listen  to  the  kettle 
and  then  purr,  which  is  their  poetry. 

*  Some  gauzy  tissue  paper  on  which  the  J5onnet  was  copied. 
18 


206  LETTERS    TO    OILMAN. 

"  On  Sunday  week  we  kiss  your  hands  (if  they  are 
clean).  This  next  Sunday  I  have  been  engaged  for  '«onie 
time. 

"  With  remembrances  to  your  good  host  and  hostess, 
"  Yours  ever,  G.  Lamb." 


TO    MR.  COLERII/lifE. 

"  My  dear  Coleridge. — With  pain  and  grief,  I  must  en- 
treat you  to  excuse  us  on  Thursday.  My  head,  though 
externally  correct,  has  had  a  severe  concussion  in  my  long 
illness,  and  the  very  idea  of  an  engagement  hanging  over 
for  a  day  or  two,  forbids  my  rest,  and  I  ge^,  up  miserable. 
I  am  not  well  enough  for  company.     I  do  assure  you,  no 

other  thing  prevents  me  coming.     I  expect and  his 

brothers  this  or  to-morrow  evening,  and  it  worries  me  to 
death  that  I  am  not  ostensibly  ill  enough  to  put  'em  off. 
I  will  get  better,  when  I  shall  hope  to  see  your  nephew. 
He  will  come  again.  Mary  joins  in  best  love  to  the  Gil- 
mans.  Do,  I  earnestly  entreat  you,  excuse  me.  I  assure 
you,  again,  that  I  am  not  fit  to  go  out  yet. 

"Yours  (though  shattered),  C.  Lamb." 

"  Tuesday." 

The  next  two  notelets  are  addressed  to  Coleridge's  ex- 
cellent host,  on  the  occasion  of  borrowing  and  returning 
the  works  of  Fuller  : 

TO  MR.   gilman. 
"Pray  trust  me  with  the   '  Church  History,'  as  well  as 
the 'Worthies.'     A  moon  shall  restore  both.     Also  give 
me  back  '  Him  of  Aquinum.'     In  return  you  have  the  liffht 
of  my  countenance J^     Adieu. 

*  A  sketch  of  Lamb,  by  an  amateur  artist. 


LETTERS  TO  GILMAN  AND  ROBINSOjST.  207 

"  P.  S.  A  sister  also  of  mine  comes  Avith  it.  A  son 
of  Nimshi  drives  her.  Their  driving  Avill  have  been  furi- 
ous, impassioned.  Pray  God  they  have  not  toppled  over 
the  tunnel !  I  promise  you  I  fear  their  steed,  bred  out 
of  the  wind  without  a  father,  semi-Melchisedecish,  hot, 
phaetontic.     Prom  my  country  lodgings  at  Enfield. 

"C.  L." 

TO    MR.    GILMAN. 

"  Dear  Gilman. — Pray  do  you,  or  S.  T.  C,  immediately 
write  to  say  you  have  received  back  the  golden  works  of 
the  dear,  fine,  silly  old  angel  which  I  part  from  bleeding, 
and  to  say  how  the  winter  has  used  you  all. 

"  It  is  our  intention  soon,  weather  permitting,  to  come 
over  for  a  day  at  Highgate  ;  for  beds  we  will  trust  to  the 
Gate-House,  should  you  be  full :  tell  me  if  we  may  come  cas- 
ually, for  in  this  change  of  climate,  there  is  no  naming  a 
day  for  walking.     With  best  loves  to  Mrs.  Gilman,  &;c., 

"  Yours,  mopish  but  in  health,  C.  Lamb." 

"  I  shall  be  uneasy  till  I  hear  of  Fuller's  safe  arrival." 

The  following  two  letters  addressed  to  Mr.  11.  C.  Rob- 
inson, when  afiiicted  with  rheumatism,  are  in  Lamb's  wild- 
est strain  of  mirth.  In  the  first  he  pretends  to  endure  all 
the  pain  he  believes  his  friend  to  be  sufiering,  and  attrib- 
utes it  to  his  own  incautious  habits  :  in  the  second  he  at- 
tributes the  suffering  to  his  friend  in  a  strain  of  exaggera- 
tion, probably  intended  to  make  the  reality  more  tolerable 
by  compassion : 

TO  MR.  11.  C.  ROBINSON. 

"April  10th,  1829. 

"  Dear  Robinson, — 'Wc  are  afraid  you  will  slip  from  ug 
from  England  without  again  seeing  us.     It  would  be  char 


208  LETTER    TO    ROBINSON. 

itj  to  come  and  see  me.  I  have  these  three  days  oeen 
laid  up  with  strong  rheumatic  pains,  in  loins,  back,  should- 
ers. I  shriek  sometimes  from  the  violence  of  them.  I  c^et 
scarce  any  sleep,  and  the  consequence  is,  I  am  restless, 
and  want  to  change  sides  as  I  lie,  and  I  cannot  turn  with- 
out resting  on  my  hands,  and  so  turning  all  my  body  all 
at  once,  like  a  log  with  a  lever.  While  this  rainy  weather 
lasts,  I  have  no  hope  of  alleviation.  I  have  tried  flannels 
and  embrocation  in  vain.  Just  at  the  hip  joint  the  pangs 
sometimes  are  so  excruciating,  that  I  cry  out.  It  is  as  vio- 
lent as  the  cramp,  and  far  more  continuous.  I  am  ashamed 
to  whine  about  these  complaints  to  you,  who  can  ill  enter 
into  them  ;  but  indeed  they  are  sharp.  You  go  about,  in 
rain  or  fine,  at  all  hours,  without  discommodity.  I  envy 
you  your  immunity  at  a  time  of  life  not  much  removed 
from  my  own.  But  you  owe  your  exemption  to  temper- 
ance, which  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  pursue.  I,  in  my  life 
time,  have  had  my  good  things.  Hence  my  frame  is  brittle 
— ^your's  strong  as  brass.  I  never  knew  any  ailment  you 
had.  You  can  go  out  at  night  in  all  weathers,  sit  up  all 
hours.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  moralise,  I  only  wish  to  say 
that  if  you  are  inclined  to  a  game  at  double-dumby,  I  would 
try  and  bolster  up  myself  in  a  chair  for  a  rubber  or  so. 
My  days  are  tedious,  but  less  so  and  less  painful,  than  my 
nights.  May  you  never  know  the  pain  and  difficulty  I 
have  in  writing  so  much  !  Mary,  who  is  most  kind,  joins 
m  the  wish  !  C.  Lamb." 

THE  COMPANION  LETTER  TO  THE  SAME. 

(a  week  afterwards.) 

"  I  do  confess  to  mischief.  It  was  the  subtlest  diaboli- 
cal piece  of  malice  heart  of  man  has  contrived.  I  have  no 
more  rheumatism  than  that  poker.     Never  was  freer  from 


LETTERS    TO    ROBINSON^.  209 

all  pains  and  aches.  Every  joint  sound  to  the  tip  of  the 
ear  from  the  extremity  of  the  lesser  toe.  The  report  of 
thy  torments  was  blown  circuitously  here  from  Bury.  I 
could  not  resist  the  jeer.  I  conceived  you  w^rithing,  when 
you  should  just  receive  my  congratulations.  IIoav  mad 
you'd  be.  Well,  it  is  not  in  my  method  to  inflict  pangs. 
I  leave  that  to  Heaven.  But  in  the  existing  pangs  of  a 
friend  I  have  a  share.  His  disquietude  crowns  my  exemp- 
tion. I  imagine  you  hov.'ling,  and  pace  across  the  room, 
shooting  out  my  free  arms,  legs,  &c.,  /  \l  I  this  way  and 
that  way,  Avith  an  assurance  of  not  kindling  a  spark  of  pain 
from  them.  I  deny  that  Nature  meant  us  to  sympathise 
with  agonies.  Those  face-contortions,  retortions,  distor- 
tions have  the  merriness  of  antics.  Nature  meant  them 
for  farce — not  so  pleasant  to  the  actor,  indeed  ;  but  Gri- 
maldi  cries  when  we  laugh,  and  'tis  but  one  that  suffers  to 
make  thousands  rejoice. 

"  You  say  that  shampooing  is  ineffectual.  But,  per  se, 
it  is  good,  to  show  the  introvolutions,  extravolutions,  of 
which  the  animal  frame  is  capable — to  show  what  the 
creature  is  receptible  of,  short  of  dissolution. 

"  You  are  worst  of  nights,  an't  you  ?  You  never  was 
rack'd,  Avas  you  ?  I  should  like  an  authentic  map  of  those 
feelings. 

"  You  seem  to  have  the  flying  gout.  You  can  scarcely 
•jcrew  a  smile  out  of  your  face,  can  you  ?  I  sit  at  immu- 
nity and  sneer  ad  libitum.  'Tis  now  the  time  for  you  to 
make  good  resolutions.  I  may  go  on  breaking  'em  for 
anything  the  worse  I  find  myself.  Your  doctor  seems  to 
keep  you  on  the  long  cure.  Precipitate  healings  are  ne- 
ver good.  Don't  come  while  you  are  so  bad ;  I  shan't  be 
able  to  attend  to  your  throes  and  the  dumby  at  once.  1 
should  like  to  know  how  slowly  the  pain  goes  off.     But 

18* 


210  LETTER   TO    BARTON. 

don't  write,  unless  the  motion  will  be  likely  to  make  your 
sensibility  more  exquisite. 

"  Your  affectionate  and  truly  healthy  friend, 

"C.  Lamb. 

"  Mary  thought  a  letter  from  me  might  amuse  you  in 
your  torment." 

The  illness  of  Mr.  Barton's  daughter  drew  from  Lamb 
the  following  expression  of  kindred  loneliness  and  sor- 
row:— 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"July  3d,  1829. 

"  Dear  B.  B. — I  am  very  much  grieved  indeed  for  the 
indisposition  of  poor  Lucy.  Your  letter  found  me  in  do- 
mestic troubles.  My  sister  is  again  taken  ill,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  remove  her  out  of  the  house  for  many  weeks,  I 
fear,  before  I  can  hope  to  have  her  again.  I  have  been 
very  desolate  indeed.  My  loneliness  is  a  little  abated  by 
our  young  friend  Emma  having  just  come  here  for  her 
holidays,  and  a  schoolfellow  of  hers  that  was,  with  her. 
Still  the  house  is  not  the  same,  tho'  she  is  the  same.  Mary 
had  been  pleasing  herself  with  the  prospect  of  seeing  her 
at  this  time  ;  and  with  all  their  company,  the  house  feels 
at  times  a  frightful  solitude.  May  you  and  I  in  no  very 
long  time  have  a  more  cheerful  theme  to  write  about,  and 
congratulate  upon  a  daughter's  and  a  sister's  perfect  re- 
covery. Do  not  be  long  without  telling  me  how  Lucy 
goes  on.  I  have  a  right  to  call  her  by  her  quaker-name, 
you  know.  Emma  knows  that  I  am  writing  to  you,  and 
begs  to  be  remembered  to  you  with  thankfulness  for  your 
ready  contribution.     Her  album  is  filling  apace.     But  of 


jjEtter  to  avordswokth.  211 

her  contributors,  one,  almost  the  flower  of  It,  a  most  amia- 
ble young  man  and  late  acquaintance  of  mine,  has  been 
carried  off  by  consumption,  on  return  from  one  of  the 
Azores  islands,  to  which  he  went  with  hopes  of  mastering 
the  disease,  came  back  improved,  went  back  to  a  most 
close  and  confined  counting-house,  and  relapsed.  His  name 
was  Dibdin,  grandson  of  the  Songster.  C.  L." 

The  following  graphic  sketch  of  the  happy  tempera- 
ment of  one  of  Lamb's  intimate  friends,  now  no  more,  is 
contained  in  a  letter  to — 


MR.    WORDSWORTH. 

"  A is  well,  and  in  harmony  with  himself  and  the 

world.  I  don't  know  how  ho,  and  those  of  his  constitu- 
tion, keep  their  nerves  so  nicely  balanced  as  they  do.  Or, 
have  they  any  ?  Or,  are  they  made  of  pack-thread  ? 
He  is  proof  against  weather,  ingratitude,  meat  underdone, 
every  weapon  of  fate.  I  have  just  now  a  jagged  end  of 
a  tooth  pricking  against  my  tongue,  which  meets  it  half 
way,  in  a  wantonness  of  provocation-;  and  there  they  go 
at  it,  the  tongue  pricking  itself,  like  the  viper  against  the 
file,  and  the  tooth  galling  all  the  gum  inside  and  out  to 
torture  ;  tongue  and  tooth,  tooth  and  tongue,  hard  at  it ; 
and  I  to  pay  the  reckoning,  till  all  my  mouth  is  as  hot  as 
brimstone ;  and  I'd  venture  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  that 
at  this  moment,  at  which  I  conjecture  my  full-happiness'd 
friend  is  picking  his  crackers,  that  not  one  of  the  double 
rows  of  ivory  in  his  privileged  mouth  has  as  much  as  a  flaw 
in  it,  but  all  perform  their  functions,  and,  having  performed 
them,  expect  to  be  picked,  (luxurious  steeds  !)  and  rubbed 
down.     I  don't  think  he  could  be  robbed,  or  have  his  house 


212  LETTER    TO  AYRTON. 

set  on  fire,  or  even  want  money.  I  liave  heard  liim  express 
a  similar  opinion  of  his  own  infallibility.  I  keep  acting 
here  Ileautontimorumenos. 

******* 

"  Have  you  seen  a  curious  letter  in  the  Morning  Chroni- 
cle, by  C.  L.,*  the  genius  of  absurdity,  respecting  Bona- 
parte suing  out  his  Habeas  Corpus  ?  That  man  is  his 
own  moon.  He  has  no  need  of  ascending  into  that  gentle 
planet  for  mild  influences." 


In  the  spring  of  the  year,  Mr.  Murray,  the  eminent 
publisher,  through  one  of  Lamb's  oldest  and  most  cherished 
friends,  Mr.  Ayrton,  proposed  that  he  should  undertake  a 
continuation  of  his  Specimens  of  the  Old  English  Drama- 
tists. The  proposal  was  communicated  by  Mr.  Ayrton  to 
Lamb,  then  at  Enfield,  and  then  too  painfully  anxious  for 
the  recovery  of  Miss  Isola,  who  was  dangerously  ill  in  Suf- 
folk to  make  the  arrangement  desired.  The  following  is 
the  reply : — 

TO   MR  AYRTON. 

"  Mr.  Westwood's,  Chase  Side,  Enfield, 
"14th  March,  1830. 

"  My  dear  Ayrton, — Your  letter,  which  was  only  not 
so  pleasant  as  your  appearance  would  have  been,  has  re- 

*  Capel  Lofft,  a  barrister  residing  in  Suffolk,  a  well-known  whig  and  friend 
of  Major  Wyvil  and  Major  Cartwright,  who  sometimes  half  vexed  Lamb  by 
signing,  as  he  had  a  right,  their  common  initials  to  a  sonnet.  He  wrote  a 
ve°ry  vehement  letter,  contending  that  the  detention  of  Napoleon  on  board  a 
vessel  off  the  coast,  preparatory  to  his  being  sent  to  St.  Helena,  was  illegal, 
and  that  the  captain  of  the  vessel  would  be  compelled  to  surrender  him  in 
obedience  to  a  writ  of  Habeas  Corpus. 


LETTER    TO    AYIITON.  213 

vived  some  old  images ;  Phillips,*  (not  the  Colonel,)  with 
his  few  hairs  bristling  up  at  the  charge  of  a  revoke,  which 
he  declares  impossible ;  the  old  Captain's  significant  nod 
over  the  right  shoulderf  (was  it  not) ;  Mrs.  B 's  de- 
termined questioning  of  the  score,  after  the  game  was  ab- 
solutely gone  to  the  d — 1 ;  the  plain  but  hospitable  cold 
boiled-beef  suppers  at  sideboard  ;  all  wdiich  fancies,  redo- 
lent of  middle  age  and  strengthful  spirits,  come  across  us 
ever  and  anon  in  this  vale  of  deliberate  senectitude, 
yclcped  Enfield. 

"  You  imagine  a  deep  gulf  between  you  and  us ;  and 
there  is  a  pitiable  hiatus  in  hind  between  St.  James's  Park 
and  this  extremity  of  Middlesex.  But  the  mere  distance 
in  turnpike  roads  is  a  trifle.  The  roof  of  a  coach  swings 
you  doAvn  in  an  hour  or  two.  We  have  a  sure  hot  joint 
on  a  Sunday,  and  when  had  we  better  ?  I  suppose  you 
know  that  ill  health  has  obliged  us  to  give  up  housekeep- 
ing, but  we  have  an  asylum  at  the  very  next  door — only 
twenty-four  inches  further  from  town,  which  is  not  mate- 
rial in  a  country  expedition — where  a  table  cThote  is  kept 
for  us,  without  trouble  on  our  parts,  and  we  adjourn  after 
dinner,  when  one  of  the  old  world  (old  friends)  drops  ca- 
sually down  among  us.     Come  and  find  us  out ;  and  seal 

*  Edward  Phillips,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Right  Hon.  Charles  Abbott, 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  "  Colonel"  alluded  to  was  the  Lieu- 
tenant of  Marines  who  accompanied  Capt.  Cook  in  his  last  voyage,  and  on 
shore  with  that  great  man  when  he  fell  a  victim  to  his  humanity.  On  the 
death  of  his  commander,  Lieutenant  Phillips,  himself  wounded,  swam  off  to 
the  boats;  but  seeing  one  of  his  marines  struggling  in  the  water  to  escape 
the  natives  who  were  persuing  him,  gallantly  swam  back,  protected  his  man 
at  the  peril  of  his  life,  and  both  reached  their  boat  in  safety.  He  afterwards 
married  that  accomplished  and  amiable  daughter  of  Dr.  Burney,  whose  name 
60  frequently  occurs  in  the  Diary  and  Correspondence  of  her  sister,  Madame 
D'Arblay. 

+  Captain  (afterwards  Admiral),  James  Burney. 


214  LETTER   TO    MRS.    WILLIAMS. 

our  judicious  change  with  your  approbation,  whenever  the 
whim  bites,  or  the  sun  prompts.  No  need  of  announce- 
ment, for  we  are  sure  to  be  at  home. 

"  I  keep  putting  off  the  subject  of  my  answer.  In 
truth  I  am  not  in  spirits  at  present  to  see  Mr.  Murray  on 
such  a  business  ;  but  pray  oifer  him  my  acknowledgments, 
and  an  assurance  that  I  should  like  at  least  one  of  his  pro- 
positions, as  I  have  so  much  additional  matter  for  the  Spe- 
cimens, as  might  make  two  volumes  in  all ;  or  ONE  (new 
edition)  omitting  such  better  known  authors  as  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  Johnson,  &c. 

"  But  we  are  both  in  trouble  at  present.  A  very  dear 
young  friend  of  ours,  who  passed  her  Christmas  holidays 
here,  has  been  taken  dangerously  ill  with  a  fever,  from 
which  she  is  very  precariously  recovering,  and  I  expect  a 
summons  to  fetch  her  when  she  is  well  enough  to  bear  the 
journey  from  Bury.  It  is  Emma  Isola,  with  whom  we 
got  acquainted  at  our  first  visit  to  your  sister,  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  she  has  been  an  occasional  inmate  with  us — 
and  of  late  years  much  more  frequently — ever  since. 
While  she  is  in  this  danger,  and  till  she  is  out  of  it,  and 
here  in  a  probable  way  to  recovery,  I  feel  that  I  have  no 
spirits  for  an  engagement  of  any  kind.  It  has  been  a 
terrible  shock  to  us ;  therefore  I  beg  that  you  will  make 
my  handsomest  excuses  to  Mr.  Murray. 

"  Our  very  kindest  loves  to  Mrs.  A.  and  the  younger 
A.'s.  Your  unforgotten,  C.  Lamb." 

Good  tidings  soon  reached  Lamb  of  Miss  Isola's  health, 
and  he  went  to  Fornham  to  bring  her,  for  a  month's  visit, 
to  Enfi'-'ld.  The  following  are  portions  of  letters  addressed 
to  thi?  lady  from  whose  care  he  had  removed  her,  after 
their  arrival  at  home,  other  parts  of  which  have  been 
alrcA  iy  published. 


LETTER  TO    MRS.  "WILLIAMS.  215 


TO    MRS.  WILLIAMS. 

'■  Enfield,  April  2d,  1800. 

"  Dear  Madam. — I  have  great  pleasure  in  letting  y.ou 
know  Miss  Isola  has  suifered  very  little  from  fatigue  on 
her  long  journey  ;  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  came  home 
rather  the  more  tired  of  the  two.  But  I  am  a  very  un- 
practised traveller.  We  found  my  sister  very  well  in 
health,  only  a  little  impatient  to  see  her ;  and,  after  a 
few  hysterical  tears  for  gladness,  all  was  comfortable 
again.  We  arrived  here  from  Epping  between  five  and 
six. 

"  How  I  employed  myself  between  Epping  and  Enfield, 
the  poor  verses  in  the  front  of  my  paper  may  inform  you, 
which  you  may  please  to  Christen  an  '  Acrostic  in  a  cross- 
road,' and  which  I  wish  w^ere  worthier  of  the  lady  they 
refer  to,  but  I  trust  you  will  plead  my  pardon  to  her  on  a 
subject  so  delicate  as  a  lady's  good  7iame.  Your  candor 
must  acknowledge  that  they  are  written  straight.  And 
now,  dear  madam,  I  have  left  myself  hardly  space  to  ex- 
press my  sense  of  the  friendly  reception  I  found  at  Forn- 
hain.  Mr.  Williams  will  tell  you  that  we  had  the  plea- 
sure of  a  slight  meeting  with  him  on  the  road,  where  I 
could  almost  have  told  liim,  but  that  it  seemed  ungracious, 
that  such  had  been  your  hospitality,  that  I  scarcely  mis- 
sed the  good  master  of  the  family  at  Fornham,  though 
lieartily  I  should  have  rejoiced  to  have  made  a  little 
longer  acquaintance  with  him.  I  will  say  nothing  of  our 
deeper  obligations  to  both  of  you,  because  I  think  we 
agreed  at  Fornham  that  gratitude  may  be  over-exacted 
on  the  part  of  the  obliging,  and  over-expressed  on  the 
part  of  the  obliged  person. 


216  LETTER   TO  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

"  Miss  Isola  is  writing,  and  will  tell  you  that  we  are 
going  on  very  comfortably.  Her  sister  is  just  come.  She 
blames  my  last  verses,  as  being  more  written  on  Mr.  Wil- 
li(ims  than  on  yourself;  but  how  should  I  have  parted 
whom  a  Superior  Power  has  brought  together  ?  I  beg 
you  will  jointly  accept  of  all  our  best  respects,  and  par- 
don your  obsequious  if  not  troublesome  correspondent, 

"CL. 

"  P.S. — I  am  the  worst  folder-up  of  a  letter  in  the 
world,  except  certain  Hottentots,  in  the  land  of  Caffre, 
who  never  fold  up  their  letters  at  all,  writing  very  badly 
upon  skins,  &c." 

The  following  contains  Lamb's  account  of  the  same 
journey,  addressed  to  Buxton  : — 

TO  MRS.  HAZLITT. 

"May  24th,  1830. 

"  Mary's  love  ?     Yes.     Mary  Lamb  is  quite  well. 

"  Dear  Sarah. — I  found  my  way  to  NorthaAV  on  Thurs- 
day, and  saw  a  very  good  woman  behind  a  counter,  who 
says  also  that  you  are  a  very  good  lady.  I  did  not  accept  her 
offered  glass  of  wine  (home-made,  I  take  it)  but  craved  a 
cup  of  ale,  with  which  I  seasoned  a  slice  of  cold  lamb, 
from  a  sandwich  box,  which  I  ate  in  her  back  parlor,  and 
proceeded  for  Berkhampstead,  &c. ;  lost  myself  over  a 
heath,  and  had  a  day's  pleasure.  I  wish  you  could  walk 
as  I  do,  and  as  you  used  to  do.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you 
are  so  poorly  ;  and,  now  I  have  found  my  way,  I  wish  you 
back  at  Goody  Tomlinson's.  What  a  pretty  village  'tis. 
I  should  have  come  sooner,  but  was  waiting  a  summons  to 


LETTER    TO    MRS.  HAZLITT.  217 

Bury.     Well,  it  came;  and  I  found  the  good  parson's  lady 
(he  was  from  home)  exceedingly  hospitable. 

"  Poor  Emma,  the  first  moment  Ave  were  alone,  took  me 
into  a  corner,  and  said,  '  Noav,  pray,  don't  drink;  do 
chock  3"ourself  after  dinner,  for  my  sake,  and  when  we  get 
home  to  Enfield,  j-ou  shall  drink  as  much  as  ever  you 
please,  and  I  won't  say  a  word  about  it.'  How  I  behaved, 
you  may  guess,  when  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Williams  and  I 
have  written  acrostics  on  each  other ;  and  she  hoped  that 
she  should  have  '  no  reason  to  regret  Miss  Isola's  recovery, 
by  its  depriving  her  of  our  begun  correspondence.'  Emma 
stayed  a  month  with  us,  and  has  gone  back  (in  tolerable 
health)  to  her  long  home,  for  she  comes  not  again  for  a 
twelvemonth.  I  amused  Mrs.  Williams  with  an  occur- 
rence on  our  road  to  Enfield.*  We  travelled  with  one 
of  those  troublesome  fellow-passengers  in  a  stage-coach, 
that  is  called  a  well-informed  man.  For  twenty  miles  we 
discoursed  about  the  properties  of  steam,  probabilities  of 
carriages  by  ditto,  till  all  my  science,  and  more  than  all, 
was  exhausted,  and  I  was  thinking  of  escaping  my  tor- 
ment by  getting  up  on  the  outside,  when  getting  into 
Bishops  Stortford,  my  gentleman,  spying  some  farming 
land,  put  an  unlucky  question  to  me :  '  What  sort  of  a 
crop  of  turnips  I  thought  we  should  have  this  year  ?' 
Emma's  eyes  turned  to  me,  to  know  what  in  the  world  I 
could  have  to  say ;  and  she  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of 
laughter,  maugre  her  pale,  serious  cheeks,  when,  with  the 
greatest  gravity,  I  replied,  that  '  it  depended,  I  believed, 
upon  boiled  legs  of  mutton.'  This  clenched  our  conver- 
sation, and  my  gentleman,  with  a  face  half  wise,  half  in 
Bcorn,  troubled  us  Avith  no  more  conversation,  scientific  or 

*  This  little  anecdote  was  told  by  Lsmb  in  a  letter  previously  published, 
Cut  not  quite  so  richly  as  here. 
19 


218  LETTER   TO   MRS.  HAZLITT. 

philosophical,  for  the  remainder  of^the  journey.     S 

was  here  yesterda}',  and  as  learned  to  the  full  as  my  fel- 
low-traveller.    What  a  pity  that  he  will  spoil  a  wit,  and  a 

most  pleasant  fellow  (as  he  is)  by  wisdom.     N.  Y * 

IS  as  good,  and  as  odd  as  ever.     We  had  a  dispute  about 
the  word  '  heir,'  which  I  contended  was  pronounced  like 
*  air  ;'  he  said  that  might  be  in  common  parlance  ;  or  that 
we  might  so  use  it,   speaking  of  the    '  Heir-at-Law,'   a 
comedy ;  but  that  in  the  law  courts  it  was  necessary  to 
give  it  a  full  aspiration,  and  to  say  hayer ;  he  thought  it 
might  even  vitiate  a  cause,  if  a   counsel  pronounced  it 
otherwise.      In  conclusion,   he   'would    consult    Serjeant 
Wilde,'  who  gave  it  against  him.     Sometimes  he  falleth 
into  the  water  ;  sometimes  into  the  fire.     He  came  down 
here,  and  insisted  on  reading  Virgil's  'Eneid'  all  through 
with  me,  (which  he   did)  because    a  counsel  must  know 
Latin.     Another  time  he  read  out  all  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John,  because  Biblical  quotations  are  very  emphatic  in  a 
court  of  Justice.     A  third  time,  he  would  carve  a  fowl, 
which  he  did  very  ill-favoredly,  because  '  we  did  not  know 
how  indispensable  it  was  for  a  barrister  to   do  all  those 
sort  of  things  well  ?     Those  little   things  were  of  more 
consequence  than  we  supposed.'     So  he  goes  on,  harass- 
ing about  the  way  to  prosperity,  and  losing  it.     With  a 
long  head,  but  somewhat  a  wrong  one — harum-scarum. 
Why  does  not  his  guardian  angel  look  to  him  ?     He  de- 
serves one  :  may  be,  he  has  tired  him  out. 

"  I  am  with  this  long  scraAvl,  but  I  thought  in  your 
exile,  you  might  like  a  letter.  Commend  me  to  all  the 
wonders  in  Derbyshire,  and  tell  the  devil  I  humbly  kiss — 
my  hand  to  him.     Yours  ever,  C.  Lamb." 

"  Enfield,  Satunlaij." 

*  A  very  old  and  dear  friend  of  Lamb  who  bad  just  been  called  in  tbe  bar. 


LETTERS   TO    MOXON   AND   BARTON.  219 

The  esteem  which  Lamb  had  always  cherished  for  Mr. 
Rogers,  was  quickened  into  a  livelier  feeling  bj  the  gene- 
rous interest  which  the  poet  took  in  the  success  of  Mr. 
Moxon,  who  was  starting  as  a  publisher.  The  following 
little  note  shows  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  this  time 
towards  two  distinguished  persons. 

TO    MR.  MOXON. 

"  Enfield,  Tuesday. 

"  Dear  M. — I  dined  with  your  and  my  Rogers,  at  Mr. 
Gary's,  yesterday.  Gary  consulted  me  on  the  proper 
bookseller  to  offer  a  lady's  MS  novel  to.  I  said  I  would 
write  to  you.  But  I  wish  you  would  call  on  the  trans- 
lator of  Dante,  at  the  British  Museum,  and  talk  with  him. 
He  is  the  pleasantest  of  clergymen.  I  told  him  of  all 
Rogers's  handsome  behaviour  to  you,  and  you  are  already 
no  stranger.  Go !  I  made  Rogers  laugh  about  your 
Nightengale  Sonnet,  not  having  heard  one.  'Tis  a  good 
sonnet,  notwithstanding.  You  shall  have  the  books 
shortly.  C.  L." 

The  petty  criticisms  on  the  small  volume  of  "  Album 
Verses,"  by  which  a  genial  trifle,  intended  to  mark  the 
commencement  of  the  career  of  a  dear  friend,  was  sub- 
jected to  absurd  severity,  and  which  called  forth  a  little  in- 
dignant poem  from  the  Laureate,  provoked  the  following 
notice  from  Lamb,  in  a  letter  addressed 


TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"August  30th,  1830. 

"DearB.B. — My  address  is  34,  Southampton  Buildings, 
Holborn.  For  God's  sake  do  not  let  me  be  pester'd  with 
Annuals.     They  are  all  rogues  who  edit  them,  and  some- 


220        LETTERS  TO  MOXON  AND  BARTON. 

tiling  else  who  write  in  them.  I  am  still  alone,  and  very 
much  out  of  sorts,  and  cannot  spur  up  my  mind  to  writing. 
The  sight  of  one  of  those  year  books  makes  me  sick.  I 
get  nothing  by  any  of  'em,  not  even  a  copy. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  warm  interest  about  my  little  vol- 
ume, for  the  critics  on  which  I  care  the  five  hundred  thou- 
sandth part  of  the  tythe  of  a  half-farthing.  I  am  too  old  a 
Militant  for  that.  How  noble,  tho',  in  R.  S.,*  to  come 
forward  for  an  old  friend,  who  had  treated  him  so  un- 
worthily. 

"  Moxon  has  a  shop  without  customers,  I  a  book  with- 
out readers.  But  what  a  clamor  against  a  poor  collection 
of  Album  verses,  as  if  we  had  put  forth  an  Epic.  I  cannot 
scribble  a  long  letter — I  am,  when  not  at  foot,  very  deso- 
late, and  take  no  interest  in  anything,  scarce  hate  any- 
thing, but  Annuals.  I  am  in  an  interregnum  of  thought 
and  feeling.  What  a  beautiful  autumn  morning  this  is,  if 
it  was  but  with  me  as  in  times  past  when  the  candle  of  the 
Lord  shined  round  me.  I  cannot  even  muster  enthusiasm 
to  admire  the  French  heroism.  In  better  times  I  hope  we 
may  some  day  meet,  and  discuss  an  old  poem  or  two.  But 
if  you'd  have  me  not  sick,  no  more  of  Annuals. 

"  C.  L.  Ex-Elia. 

"  Love  to  Lucy  and  A.  K.  always." 

In  1830,  Lamb  tried  the  experiment  of  lodging  a  little 
while  in  London ;  but  Miss  Lamb's  malady  compelled  him 
to  return  to  the  solitude  of  Enfield.  He  thus  communi- 
cates the  sad  state  of  his  sister  : 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"  Dear  Moxon. — I  have  brought  my  sister  to  Enfield, 
being  sure  that  she  had  no  hope  of  recovery  in  London. 

*  Robert  Southey. 


LETTER   TO    BARTON.  221 

Her  state  of  mind  is  deplorable  beyond  any  example.  I 
almost  fear  whether  she  has  strength  at  her  time  of  life 
ever  to  get  out  of  it.  Here  she  must  be  nursed,  and  nei- 
ther see  nor  hear  of  anything  in  the  world  out  of  her  sick 
chamber.  The  mere  hearing  that  Southey  had  called  at 
our  lodgings  totally  upset  her.  Pray  see  him,  or  hear  of 
him  at  Mr.  Rickman's,  and  excuse  my  not  writing  to  him. 
[  dare  not  write,  or  receive  a  letter  in  her  presence  ;  every 
little  task  so  agitates  her.  Westwood  will  receive  any 
letter  for  me,  and  give  it  me  privately. 

"  Pray  assure  Southey  of  ray  kindliest  feelings  towards 
him,  and,  if  you  do  not  see  him,  send  this  to  him. 

"  Kindest  remembrances  to  your  sister,  and  believe  me 
ever  yours,  C.  Lamb. 

"  Remember  me  kindly  to  the  Allsops." 

The  following  curious  piece  of  modern  Latin  was  ad- 
dressed 

TO    BERNARD    BARTON. 

"  April,  1S31. 

"  Vir  Bone  ! — Recepi  literas  tuas  amicissimas  et  in  men- 
tem  venit  responsuro  mihi,  vol  rare,  vel  nunquam,  inter 
nos  interccdisse  Latinum  linguam,  organum  rescribendi, 
loquendive.  Epistohc  ture,  Plinianis  elegantiis  (supra  quod 
Tremulo  deceat)  refertye,  tam  a  verbis  Plinianis  adeo  ab- 
horrent, ut  no  vocem  quamquam  (Roma nam  scilicet)  habere 
videaris,  quam  'ad  canem,'  ut  aiunt,  '  rejectare  possis.' 
Forsan  desuetude  Latinissandi  ad  vernaculam  linguam 
usitandam  plus  quam  opus  sit,  coegit.  Per  adagia  qucedam 
nota,  et  in  ore  omnium  pervulgata,  ad  Latinitatis  perditge 
recuperationem  revocare  te  institui. 
19* 


222  LETTER   TO   BARTON. 

"  Felis  in  abaco  est,  et  ae2;i'^  videt. 

"  Omne  quod  splendet  nequaquam  aurum  putes. 

"  Imponas  equo  mendicuin,  equitabit  idem  ad  diabolum. 

"  Fur  commode  a  fure  prenditur. 

"  0  Maria,  Maria,  valde  contraria,  quomodo  crescit 
hortulus  tuus  ? 

"Nunc  majora  canamus. 

"  Thomas,  Thomas,  de  Islington,  uxorem  duxit  die  nu- 
pera  Dominica.  Reduxit  domum  postera,.  Succedenti 
baculum  emit.  Postridie  ferit  illam.  j^lgrescit  ilia  sub- 
Bubsequnti.  Proximo,  (nempe  Veneris)  est  mortua.  Plu- 
rimum  gestiit  Thomas,  quod  appropinquanti  Sabbato  effer- 
enda  sit. 

"  Horner  quidam  Johanulus  in  angulo  sedebat,  ortocreas 
quasdam  deglutiens.  Inseruit  pollices,  pruna  nana  evell- 
ens,  et  magna,  voce  exclamavit,  '  Dii  boni,  qudm  bonus 
puer  fio !' 

"  Diddle-diddle-dumkins  !  mens  unicas  filius  Johannes 
cubitum  ivit,  inegris  braccis,  caliga  una  tantum,  indutus. 
Diddle-diddle,  &c.     Da  Capo. 

"  Hie  adsum  saltans  Joannula.  Cum  nemo  adsit  mihi, 
semper  resto  sola. 

"  Enigma  mihi  hoc  solvas,  et  OEdipus  fies. 

"  Qua  ratione  assimulandus  sit  equus  Tremulo  ? 

"  Quippe  cui  tota  communicatio  sit  per  Hay  et  Neigh, 
juxta  consilium  illud  Dominicum,'  '  Fiat  omnis  communi- 
catio vestra  Yea  et  Nay.' 

"  In  eis  nugis  caram  diem  consume,  dum  invigilo  vale- 
tudini  carioris  notroe  Emmse,  quge  apud  nos  jamdudum 
aegrotat.  Sal  vera  vos  jubet  mecum  Maria  mea,  ipsa  in- 
tegrd  valetudine.  Elia. 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  223 

"  Ab  agro  Enfeldiense  datura,  ,Aprilis  nescio  qnibus 
Calendis — Davus  sum,  non  Calendarius. 

"P.  S. — Perdita  in  toto  est  Billa  Reformatura." 

!Mi-.  Moxon,  having  become  the  publisher  of  "  The  Eng- 
lishman's Magazine,"  obtained  Lamb's  aid,  as  a  contribu- 
tor of  miscellaneous  articles,  which  Avere  arranged  to  ap- 
pear under  the  comprehensive  title  of  "  Peter's  Net."  The 
folloAving  accompanied  his  first  contribution,  in  which  some 
reminiscences  of  the  Royal  Academy  Avere  enshrined. 


TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"August,  1831. 

"  Dear  M. — The  R.  A.  here  memorised  was  George 
Dawe,  whom  I  knew  Avell,  and  heard  many  anecdotes  of, 
from  Daniels  and  Westall,  at  H.  Rogers's  ;  to  each  of 
them  it  will  be  well  to  send  a  magazine  in  my  name.  It 
will  fly  like  Avildfire  among  the  Royal  Academicians  and 
artists.  Could  you  get  hold  of  Procter  ? — his  chambers 
are  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  at  Montague's  ;  or  of  Janus  Weather- 
cock ? — both  of  their  prose  is  capital.  Don't  encourage 
poetry.  The  '  Peter's  Net'  does  not  intend  funny  things 
only.  All  is  fish.  And  leave  out  the  sickening  '  Elia'  at 
the  end.  Then  it  may  comprise  letters  and  characters, 
addressed  to  Peter  ;  but  a  signature  forces  it  to  be  all 
characteristic  of  the  one  man,  Elia,  or  the  one  man,  Peter, 
Avhich  cramped  me  formerly.  I  have  agreed  not  for  my 
sister  to  know  the  subjects  I  choose,  till  the  magazine 
comes  out ;  so  bcAvare  of  speaking  of  'cm,  or  Avriting  about 
'em,  save  generally.  Be  particular  about  this  warning. 
Can't  you  drop  in  some  afternoon,  and  take  a  bed  ?  Th(5 
'Athenaeum'  has  been  hoaxed  Avith  some  exquisite  poetry, 


224  LETTERS   TO   MOXON. 

that  was,  two  or  three  months  ago,  in  '  Hone's  Book.'  I 
like  your  first  number  capitally.  But  is  not  it  small? 
Come  and  see  us,  week-day  if  possible. 

"  Send  or  bring  me  Hone's  number  for  August.  The 
anecdotes  of  E.  and  of  G,  D.  are  substantially  true ;  what 
does  Elia  (or  Peter)  care  for  dates  ? 

"  The  poem  I  mean,  is  in  '  Hone's  Book,'  as  far  back  as 
April.  I  do  not  know  who  wrote  it ;  but  'tis  a  poem  I  envy 
— that  and  '  Montgomery's  Last  Man  :'  I  envy  the  writers, 
because  I  feel  I  could  have  done  something  like  them. 

"  C.  L." 

The  following  contams  Lamb's  characteristic  acknowl- 
edgment of  a  payment  on  account  of  these  contributions. 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"September  5th,  1S31. 

"  Dear  M  —Your  letter's  contents  pleased  me.  I  am 
only  afraid  c  (  taxing  you.  Yet  I  want  a  stimulus,  or  I 
think  I  should  drag  sadly.  I  shall  keep  the  moneys  in 
trust,  till  I  s,ee  you  fairly  over  the  next  1st  January. 
Then  I  shall  look  upon  'era  as  earned.  No  part  of  your 
letter  gave  mo  more  pleasure  (no,  not  the  lOZ.,  tho'  you 
may  grin)  than  that  you  will  revisit  old  Enfield,  which  I 
hope  will  be  always  a  pleasant  idea  to  you. 

"  Yours,  very  faithfully,  C.  L." 

The  magazine,  although  enriched  with  Lamb's  articles, 
and  some  others  of  great  merit,  did  not  meet  with  a  suc- 
cess so  rapid  as  to  requite  the  proprietor  for  the  labor  and 
anxiety  of  its  production.  The  following  is  Lamb's  letter, 
in  reply  to  one  announcing  a  determination  to  discontinue 
its  publication  : — 


LETTERS   TO   MOXON.  225 


TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"Oct.  24th,  1831. 

*'  To  address  an  abdicated  raonarch  is  a  nice  point  of 
breeding.  To  give  him  his  lost  titles  is  to  mock  him  ;  to 
withhold  'em  is  to  wound  him.  But  his  minister,  who  falls 
■with  him,  may  be  gracefully  sympathetic.  I  do  honestly 
feel  for  your  diminution  of  honors,  and  regret  even  the 
pleasing  cares  which  are  part  and  parcel  of  greatness. 
Your  magnanimous  submission,  and  the  cheerful  tone  of 
your  renunciation,  in  a  letter,  which,  without  flattery, 
would  have  made  an  'article,'  and  which,  rarely  as  I 
keep  letters,  shall  be  preserved,  comfort  me  a  little.  Will 
it  please,  or  plague  you,  to  say  that  when  your  parcel 
came  I  cursed  it,  for  my  pen  was  warming  in  my  hand  at 
a  ludicrous  description  of  a  Landscape  of  an  K..A.,  which 
I  calculated  upon  sending  you  to-morrow,  the  last  day  you 
gave  me  ?  Now  any  one  calling  in,  or  a  letter  coming, 
puts  an  end  to  my  writing  for  the  day.  Little  did  I  think 
that  the  mandate  had  gone  out,  so  destructive  to  my  occu- 
pation, so  relieving  to  the  apprehensions  of  the  whole  body 
of  R.A.'s ;  so  you  see  I  had  not  quitted  the  ship  while  a 
plank  was  remaining. 

"  To  drop  metaphors,  I  am  sure  you  have  done  wisely. 
The  very  spirit  of  your  epistle  speaks  that  you  have  a 
weight  off  your  mind.     I  have  one  on  mine ;  the  cash  in 

hand,  which,  as less  truly  says,  burns  in  my  pocket. 

I  feel  queer  at  returning  it,  (who  does  not  ?  you  feel  awk- 
ward at  retaking  it,  (who  ought  not  ?) — is  there  no  middle 
way  of  adjusting  this  fine  embarrassment  ?  I  think  I  have 
hit  upon  a  medium  to  skin  the  sore  place  over,  if  not  quite 
to  heal  it.     You  hinted  that  there  might  be  something 


226  LETTERS    TO  MOXON. 

under  10/.,  bj  and  Ly,  accruing  to  me—^DeviFs  Money , 
{you  are  sanguine,  say  7/.  10s.) ;  that  I  entirely  renounce 
and  abjure  all  future  interest  in  :  I  insist  upon  it,  and,  '  by 
liim  I  will  not  name,'  I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  it.  That 
will  split  your  loss,  one  half,  and  leave  me  conscientious 
possession  of  Avhat  I  hold.  Less  than  your  assent  to  this, 
no  proposal  will  I  accept  of. 

"  The  Rev.  Mr. ,  whose  name  you  have  left  illegi- 
ble (is  it  Seagull?)  never  sent  me  any  book  on  Christ's 
Hospital,  by  which  I  could  dream  that  I  was  indebted  to 
him  for  a  dedication.  Did  G.  D.  send  his  penny  tract  to 
me,  to  convert  me  to  Unitarianism  ?  Dear,  blunderinof 
soul !  why  I  am  as  old  a  one  Goddite  as  himself.  Or  did 
he  think  his  cheap  publication  would  bring  over  the  Me- 
thodists over  the  way  here  ?f  However,  I'll  give  it  to  the 
pew-opener,  in  whom  I  have  a  little  interest,  to  hand  over 
to  the  clerk,  whose  wife  she  sometimes  drinks  tea  with,  for 
him  to  lay  before  the  deacon,  who  exchanges  the  civility 
of  the  hat  with  him,  for  to  transmit  to  the  minister,  who 
shakes  hands  with  him  out  of  chapel,  and  he,  in  all  odds, 
will  light  his  pipe  Avith  it. 

"I  wish  very  much  to  see  you.  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
come  how  you  will ;  we  shall  be  very  glad  (we  need  not 
repeat)  to  see  your  sister,  or  sisters,  with  you ;  but  for  you, 
individually,  I  will  just  hint  that  a  dropping  in  to  tea,  un- 
looked  for,  about  five,  stopping  bread-and-cheese  and  gin- 
and- water,  is  worth  a  thousand  Sundays.  I  am  naturally 
miserable  on  Sunday ;  but  a  week-day  evening  and  supper 
is  like  old  times.  Set  out  now,  and  give  no  time  to  deli- 
beration. 

*  Alludinj^  to  a  little  extravagance  of  Lamb's — scarcely  worth  recollecting 
—  iu  emulation  of  the  "Devil's  AValk"  of  Southey  and  Co. 
■f  Referring  to  a  chapel  opposite  his  lodging  at  Enfield. 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  227 

''  P.  S. — The  second  volume  of  '  Elia'  is  delightful  (ly 
bound.  I  mean),  and  quite  cheap.  Why,  man,  'tis  a 
unique  ! 

"  If  1  ^vl•ite  much  more  I  shall  expand  into  an  article, 
which  1  cannot  afford  to  let  you  have  so  cheap.  By  the 
by,  to  show  the  perverseness  of  human  will,  while  I  thought 
T  must  furnish  one  of  those  accursed  things  monthly,  it 
seemed  a  labor  above  Hercules'  '  Twelve'  in  a  year,  which 
were  evidently  monthly  contributions.  Now  I  am  emanci- 
pated, I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  thousand  Essays  swelling  within 
me.     False  feelings  both ! 

"  Your  ex-Lampoonist,  or  Lamb-punnist,  from  Enfield, 
October  24,  or  '  last  day  but  one  for  receiving  articles  that 
can  be  inserted.' " 

The  following  was  addressed  soon  after 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"  Feb.,  1832. 

"  Dear  Moxon. — The  snows  are  ankle-deep,  slush,  and 
mire,  that  'tis  hard  to  get  to  the  post-office,  and  cruel  to 
send  the  maid  out.  'Tis  a  slough  of  despair,  or  I  should 
sooner  have  thanked  you  for  your  ofi"er  of  the  'Life,' 
which  we  shall  very  much  like  to  have,  and  will  return 
duly.  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  bo  in  town,  but  in  a 
week  or  two,  at  farthest,  when  I  will  come  as  far  as 
you,  if  I  can.  We  arc  moped  to  death  with  confinement 
within  doors.  I  send  you  a  curiosity  of  G.  Dyer's  ten- 
der conscience.  Between  thirty  and  forty  years  since, 
G.  published  the  '  Poet's  Fate,'  in  which  were  two  very 
harmless  lines  about  Mr.  Rodgers,  but  Mr.  R.,  not  quite 
approving  of  them,  they  were  left  out  in  a  subsequent 
edition,  1801.     But  G.  has  been  worrying  about  them  ever 


228  LETTERS   TO    MOXON. 

since  ;  if  I  have  heard  him  once,  I  have  heard  him  a  hun- 
dred times,  express  a  remorse  proportioned  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  having  heen  guilty  of  an  atrocious  libeh  As  the 
devil  would  have  it,  a  man  they  call  Barker,  in  his  '  Par- 
riana'  has  quoted  the  identical  two  lines,  as  they  stood  in 
some  obscure  edition  anterior  to  1801,  and  the  withers  of 
poor  G.  are  again  wrung.  His  letter  is  a  gem ;  with  his 
poor  blind  eyes  it  has  been  labored  out  at  six  sittings. 
The  history  of  the  couplet  is  in  page  3  of  this  irregular 
production,  in  which  every  variety  of  shape  and  size  that 
letters  can  be  twisted  into  is  to  be  found.  Do  show  his 
part  of  it  to  Mr.  R.  some  day.  If  he  has  bowels,  they 
must  melt  at  the  contrition  so  queei'ly  charactered  of  a 
contrite  sinner.  G.  was  born,  I  verily  think,  without  ori- 
ginal sin,  but  chooses  to  have  a  conscience,  as  every  Chris- 
tian gentleman  should  have  ;  his  dear  old  face  is  insuscep- 
tible of  the  twist  they  call  a  sneer,  yet  he  is  apprehensive 
of  being  suspected  of  that  ugly  appearance.  When  he 
makes  a  complement,  he  thinks  he  has  given  an  aifront — 
a  name  is  personality.  But  show  (no  hurry)  this  unique 
recantation  to  Mr.  R. :  'tis  like  a  dirty  pocket-handker- 
chief, mucked  Avith  tears  of  some  indigent  Magdalen. 
There  is  the  impress  of  sincerity  in  every  pot-hook  and 
hanger  ;  and  then  the  gilt  frame  to  such  a  pauper  picture  '• 
It  should  go  into  the  Museum. 

"  Come  when  the  weather  will  possibly  let  you ;  I  want 
to  see  the  Wordsworths,  but  I  do  not  much  like  to  be  all 
night  away.  It  is  dull  enough  to  be  here  together,  but  it 
is  duller  to  leave  Mary ;  in  short,  it  is  painful,  and  in  a 
flying  visit  I  should  hardly  catch  them.  I  have  no  beds 
for  them  if  they  came  down,  and  but  a  sort  of  a  house  to 
receive  them  in  ;  yet  I  shall  regret  their  departure  unseen ; 
I  feel  cramped  and  straitened  every  way.  Where  are  they  ? 


LETTER    TO    TALEOURD.  229 

"  "We  have  heard  from  Emma  but  once,  and  that  a  month 
ago,  and  are  very  anxious  for  another  letter. 

"  You  say  we  have  forgot  your  powers  of  being  ser- 
viceable to  us.  That  we  never  shall ;  I  do  not  know  what 
I  should  do  without  you  when  I  want  a  little  commission. 
Now  then :  there  are  left  at  Miss  Buffon's,  the  '  Tales  of 
the  Castle,'  and  certain  volumes  of  the  '  Retrospective  Re- 
view.' The  first  should  be  conveyed  to  Novello's,  and  the 
Reviews  should  be  taken  to  Talfourd's  office,  ground-floor, 
east  side,  Elm  Court,  Middle  Temple,  to  whom  I  should 
have  written,  but  my  spirits  are  wretched ;  it  is  quite  an 
eflFort  to  write  this.  So,  with  the  '  Life,'  I  have  cut  you 
out  three  pieces  of  service.  What  can  I  do  for  you  here, 
but  hope  to  see  you  very  soon,  and  think  of  you  with  most 
kindness  ?  I  fear  to-morrow,  between  rains  and  snows  it 
would  be  impossible  to  expect  you,  but  do  not  let  a  prac- 
ticable Sunday  pass.     We  are  always  at  home. 

"Mary  joins  in  remembrances  to  your  sister,  whom  we 
hope  to  see  in  any  fine-ish  weather,  when  she'll  venture. 

"  Remember  us  to  Allsop,  and  all  the  dead  people ;  to 
whom,  and  to  London,  we  seem  dead." 

In  February,  1833,  the  following  letter  was  addressed 
by  Lamb  to  the  editor,  on  his  being  made  Serjeant: — 

TO    MR.    SERJEANT    TALFOURD. 

"My  dear  T. — Now  cannot  I  call  him  Serjeant;  what 
is  there  in  a  coif?  Those  canvas-sleeves  protective  from 
ink,*  when  he  was  a  law-chit — a  ChittyYmg,  (let  the  lea- 
thern apron  be  apocryphal)  do  more  'specially  plead  to 

*Mr.  Lamb  always  insisted  that  the  costume  referred  to  was  worn  when  ha 
first  gladdened   his  young  friend  by  a  call  at  Mr.  Chitty's  Chambers.    lam 
afraid  it  is  all  apocryphal. 
20 


230  LETTER    TO    TALFOURD. 

the  Jury  Court,  of  old  niemory.  The  costume  (will  he 
agnize  it  ?)  was  as  of  a  desk-fellow,  or  Socius  Plutei.  Me- 
thought  I  spied  a  brother  ! 

"  That  fiimiliaritj  is  extinct  for  ever.  Curse  me  if  I 
can  call  him  Mr.  Serjeant — except,  mark  me,  in  comfany. 
Honor  where  honor  is  due ;  but  should  he  ever  visit  us, 
(do  you  think  he  ever  will,  Mary  ?)  what  a  distinction 
should  I  keep  up  between  him  and  our  less  fortunate 
friend,  H.  C.  R. !  Decent  respect  shall  always  be  the 
Crabb's — but,  somehow,  short  of  reverence. 

"Well,  of  my  old  friends,  I  have  lived  to  see  two 
knighted,  one  made  a  judge,  another  in  a  fair  way  to  it. 
Why  am  I  restive  ?  why  stands  my  sun  upon  Gibeah  ? 

"^  Variously,  my  dear  Mrs.  Talfourd,  [I  can  be  more 
familiar  with  her  !]  Mrs.  Serjeant  Talfourd,— mj  sister 
prompts  me — (these  ladies  stand  upon  ceremonies)  has 
the  congratulable  news  affected  the  members  of  our  small 
community.     Mary  comprehended  it  at  once,  and  entered 

into  it  heartily.     Mrs.  W was,   as  usual,  perverse ; 

would'nt,  or  could'nt,  understand  it.  A  Serjeant  ?  She 
thought  Mr.  T.  was  in  the  law.  Did'nt  know  that  he 
ever  'listed. 

"Emma  alone  truly  sympathized.  She  had  a  silk 
gown  come  home  that  very  day,  and  has  precedence  be- 
fore her  learned  sisters  accordingly. 

"  We  are  going  to  drink  the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Serjeant,  with  all  the  young  serjeantry — and  that  is  all 
that  I  can  see  that  I  shall  get  by  the  promotion. 

"  Valete,  et  mementote  amici  quondam  vestri  humillimi. 

"C.  L." 

The  following  note  to  Mr.  Moxon,  on  some  long  for- 
gotten  occasion    of  momentary    displeasure,   the  nature 


LETTER    TO    MOXON.  231 

and  object  of  wliich  is  uncertain, — contains  a  fantastical 
exaggeration  of  anger,  which,  judged  bj  those  who  knew 
the  writer,  will  only  illustrate  the  entire  absence  of  all 
the  bad  passions  of  hatred  and  contempt  it  feigns. 


TO    ME.    MOXON. 

"1833. 

Dear  M. — Many  thanks  for  the  books  ;  but  most  thanks 
for  one  immortal  sentence  :  '  If  I  do  not  cheat  him,  never 
trust  me  again.'  I  do  not  know  whether  to  admire  most, 
the  wit  or  justness  of  the  sentiment.  It  lias  my  cordial 
approbation.  My  sense  of  meum  and  tuum  applauds  it. 
I  maintain  it,  the  eighth  commandment  hath  a  secret 
special  reservation,  by  which  the  reptile  is  exempt  from 
any  protection  from  it.  As  a  dog,  or  a  nigger,  he  is  not 
a  holder  of  property.  Not  a  ninth  of  what  he  detains 
from  the  world  is  his  own.  Keep  your  hands  from  pick- 
ing and  stealing,  is  no  ways  referable  to  his  acquists.  1 
doubt  whether  bearing  false  witness  against  thy  neighbor 
at  all  contemplated  this  possible  scrub.  Could  Moses 
have  seen  the  speck  in  vision  ?  An  ex  j^ost  facto  law 
alone  could  relieve  him ;  and  we  are  taught  to  expect  no 
eleventh  commandment.  The  outlaw  to  the  Mosaic  dis- 
pensation ! — unworthy  to  have  seen  Moses  behind ! — to 
lay  his  desecrating  hands  upon  Elia  !  Has  the  irreverent 
ark-toucher  been  struck  blind,  I  wonder?  The  more  I 
think  of  him,  the  less  I  think  of  him.  His  meanness  is 
invisible  with  aid  of  solar  microscope.  My  moral  eye 
smarts  at  him.  The  less  flea  that  bites  little  fleas  !  The 
great  Beast  !     The  beggarly  Nit  ! 

"  More  when  we  meet ;  mind,  you'll  come,  two  of  you ; 
and  could'nt  you  go  off"  in  the  morning,  that  we  may  have 


232  LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH. 

a  (lay-long  curse   at  him,  if  curses   are  not  dishallowed 
by  descending  so  low  ?  Amen.     Maledicatur  in  extremis  ! 

"C.  L." 

In  the  spring  of  1833,  Lamb  made  his  last  removal 
from  Enfield  to  Edmonton.  He  was  about  to  lose  the 
society  of  Miss  Isola,  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  and  de- 
termined to  live  altogether  with  his  sister,  whether  in  her 
sanity  or  hei  madness.  This  change  Avas  announced  in 
the  following  letter 

TO    MR.    WORDSW^ORTH. 

"  End  of  May  nearly. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — Your  letter,  save  in  what  re- 
spects your  dear  sister's  health,  cheered  me  in  my  new 
solitude.  Mary  is  ill  again.  Her  illnesses  encroach  yearly. 
The  last  Avas  three  months,  followed  by  two  of  depression 
most  dreadful.  I  look  back  upon  her  earlier  attacks  with 
long-ing:.  Nice  little  durations  of  six  weeks  or  so,  followed 
by  complete  restoration — shocking  as  they  were  to  me 
then.  In  short,  half  her  life  she  is  dead  to  me,  and  the 
other  half  is  made  anxious  with  fears  and  lookings  for- 
ward to  the  next  shock.  With  such-  prospects,  it  seemed 
to  me  necessary  that  she  should  no  longer  live  with  me, 
and  be  fluttered  with  continued  removals  ;  so  I  am  come 
to  live  with  her,  at  a  Mr.  Walden's,  and  his  wife,  who  take 
in  patients,  and  have  arranged  to  lodge  and  board  us  only. 
They  have  had  the  care  of  her  before.  I  see  little  of  her, 
alas  !  I  too  often  hear  her.  Sunt  lachrymie  rerum  !  and 
you  and  I  must  bear  it. 

"  To  lay  a  little  more  load  on  it,  a  circumstance  has 
happened,  cujus  'pars  magna  fui,  and  which,  at  another 
crisis,  I  should  have  more  rejoiced  in.     I  am  about  to  lose 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  233 

my  old  and  only  walk-companion,  wliose  mirthful  spirits 
were  the  '  youth  of  our  house,'  Emma  Isola.  I  have  her 
here  now  for  a  little  while,  but  she  is  too  nervous,  properly 
to  be  lander  such  a  roof,  so  she  will  make  short  visits — be 
no  more  an  inmate.  With  my  perfect  approval,  and  more 
than  concurrence,  she  is  to  be  wedded  to  Moxon,  at  the 
end  of  August — so  '  perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers' — how 
is  it? 

"  Now  to  the  brighter  side.  I  am  emancipated  from 
Enfield.  I  am  with  attentive  people,  and  younger.  I 
am  three  or  four  miles  nearer  the  great  city  ;  coaches  half- 
price  less,  and  going  always,  of  which  I  avail  myself.  I 
have  few  friends  left  there,  one  or  two  though,  most  be- 
loved. But  London  streets  and  faces  cheer  me  inexpressi- 
bly, though  of  the  latter,  there  should  be  not  one  known 
one  remaining. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  cordial  reception  of  '  Elia.'  Inter 
nos,  the  'Ariadne'  is  not  a  darling  Avith  me  ;  several  in- 
congruous things  are  in  it,  but  in  the  composition  it  served 
me  as  illustrative. 

"  I  want  you  in  the  '  Popular  Fallacies'*  to  like  the 
'Home  that  is  no  home,'  and  '  Rising  with  the  lark.' 

"  I  am  feeble,  but  cheerful  in  this  my  genial  hot  weather. 
Walked  sixteen  miles  yesterday.  I  can't  read  much  in 
summer  time. 

"  With  my  kindest  love  to  all,  and  prayers  for  dear 
Dorothy,  I  remain  most  affectionately  yours, 

"  C.  Lamb." 

"  At  Mr.  "Walden's,  church-street,  Edmonton,  Middlesex. 
"  Moxon  has  introduced  Emma  to  Ilogers,  and  he  smilea 

*  A  series  of  articles  coutributetl,  under  this  title,  by  Lamb,  to  the  "  New 
Monthly  Magazine." 
20* 


234  LETTER   TO   MOXON. 

upon  the  project.  I  have  given  E.  my  Milton,  (will  you 
pardon  me  ?*)  in  part  of  a  portion.  It  hangs  famously  in 
his  Murray-like  shop," 

On  the  approach  of  the  wedding-day,  fixed  for  30th  July, 
Lamb  turned  to  the  account  of  a  half-tearful  merriment, 
the  gift  of  a  watch  to  the  young  lady  whom  he  was  about 
to  lose. 

TO    MR.    MOXON. 

"July  24th,  1833. 

"  For  God's  sake  give  Emma  no  more  watches  ;  one  has 
turned  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and  insulting.  She 
said  something  very  unpleasant  to  our  old  clock  in  the  pas- 
sage, as  if  he  did  not  keep  time,  and  yet  he  had  made  her 
no  appointment.  She  takes  it  out  every  instant  to  look  at 
the  moment-hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the  fields  because 
there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  '  Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  us 
Avhat's  o'clock  ?'  and  she  answers  them  punctually.  She 
loses  all  her  time  looking  to  see  '  what  the  time  is.'  I 
overheard  her  whispering,  '  Just  so  many  hours,  minutes, 
&c.,  to  Tuesday  ;  I  think  St.  George's  goes  to  slow.'  This 
little  present  of  Time  ! — why, — 'tis  Eternity  to  her  ! 

"  What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  ginger-bread  watch? 

"  She  has  spoiled  some  of  the  movements.  Between 
ourselves,  she  has  kissed  away  'half-past  twelve,'  which  I 
suppose  to  be  the  canonical  hour  in  Hanover  Square. 

"  Well,  if  '  love  me,  love  my  watch,'  answers,  she  will 
keep  time  to  you. 

"  It  goes  right  by  the  Horse  Guards. 

*  It  bad  been  proposed  by  Lamb  that  Mr.  W.  should  be  the  possessor  uf  the 
portrait  if  he  outlived  his  friend,  and  that  afterwards  it  was  to  be  bequeathed 
to  Christ's  College,  Cambridge. 


LETTER    TO    MR.    AND    MRS.    MOXON.  235 

"  Dearest  i\I, — Never  mind  opposite*  nonsense.  She 
does  not  love  jou  for  the  watch,  but  the  Avatch  for  you.  I 
will  be  at  the  wedding,  and  keep  the  30th  July,  as  long 
as  mj  poor  months  last  me,  as  a  festival,  gloriously. 

"  Yours  ever,  Elia. 

"  We  have  not  heard  from  Cambridge.  I  will  write  the 
moment  we  do. 

"  Edmonton,  24th  July,  twenty  minutes  past  three  by 
Emma's  watch." 

Miss  Lamb  was  in  the  sad  state  of  mental  estrangement 
up  to  the  day  of  the  wedding  ;  but  then  in  the  constant 
companionship  of  her  brother  at  Edmonton.  The  follow- 
ing cluster  of  little  letters  to  the  new  married  pair — the 
first  from  Charles,  introducing  one  from  Mary — shows  tho 
happy  effect  of  the  news  on  her  mental  health. 

TO    MR.  AND    MRS.    MOXON. 

"August,  1S33. 

"  Dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon. — Time  very  short.  I  wrote 
to  Miss  Fryer,  and  had  the  sweetest  letter  about  you,  Em- 
ma, that  ever  friendship  dictated.  '  I  am  full  of  good 
wishes,  I  am  crying  with  good  wishes,'  she  says ;  but  you 
shall  see  it. 

"  Dear  Moxon. — I  take  your  writing  most  kindly,  and 
shall  most  kindly  your  writing  from  Paris. 

"  I  want  to  crowd  another  letter  to  Miss  Fryer  into  the 
little  time  after  dinner,  before  post-time.  So  with  twentv 
thousand  congratulations,  Yours,  C.  L. 

*  Written  on  the  opposite  pa^^e  to  that  in  wliich  the  previous  alTi;cti'>7i;n« 
banter  appears. 


23G        LETTER  TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  MOXOX. 

"  I  am  calm,  sober,  happy.     Turn  over  for  tlie  reason 
i  got  home  from  Dover  Street,  by  Evans,  half  as  sober  as 
a  judge.     I  am  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  as  I  hope  you  will 
now." 

The  turn  of  the  leaf  presented  the  following  from  Miss 
Lamb : — 

"  My  dear  Emma  and  Edv/ard  Moxon. — Accept  my 
sincere  congratulations,  and  imagine  more  good  wishes 
than  my  weak  nerves  will  let  me  put  into  good  set  words. 
The  dreary  blank  of  unanswered  questions  which  I  ven- 
tured to  ask  in  vain,  was  cleared  up  on  the  wedding-day 
by  Mrs.  W.*  taking  a  glass  of  wine,  and  with  a  total 
change  of  countenance,  begging  leave  to  drink  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moxon's  health.  It  restored  me  from  that  moment, 
as  if  by  an  electrical  stroke,  to  the  entire  possession  of 
my  senses.  I  never  felt  so  calm  and  quiet  after  a  similar 
illness  as  I  do  now.  I  feel  as  if  all  tears  were  wiped  from 
my  eyes,  and  all  care  from  my  heart. 

"  Mary  Lamb." 

At  the  foot  of  this  letter  is  the  following  by  Charles  : — 

"  Wednesday. 

"  Dears  again. — Your  letter  interrupted  a  seventh  game 
at  picquet  which  we  were  having,  after  walking  to  Vv^t:  tght's 
and  purchasing  shoes.  We  pass  our  time  in  cardo,  walks, 
and  reading.     We  attack  Tasso  soon.  C.  L. 

"  Xcvcr  was  such  a  calm,  or  such  a  recovery.  'Tis  her 
own  words,  undictatcd." 

•  The  wif'o  of  the  landlord  of  the  house  at  EJiuonton. 


LETTER   TO    CART.  237 

Lamb's  latter  days  were  brightened  by  the  frequent — 
latterly  periodical — hospitality  of  the  admirable  translator 
of  Dante,  at  the  British  Museum.  The  following  was  ad- 
dressed to  this  new  friend  lately  acquired,  but  who  became 
an  old  friend  at  once,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moxon  were  on 
their  wedding  tour  : — 

TO    REV.  11.  F.  CART. 

"Sept.  9th,  1833. 

"  Dear  Sir. — Your  packet  I  have  only  just  received, 
owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  absence  of  Moxon,  who  is  flaunt- 
ing it  about  a  la  Parisienne,  with  his  new  bride,  our 
Emma,  much  to  his  satisfaction,  and  not  a  little  to  our 
dulness.  We  shall  be  quite  well  by  the  time  you  return 
from  Worcestershire,  and  most,  most  (observe  the  repe- 
tition) glad  to  see  you  here,  or  anywhere. 

"I  will  take  my  time  Avith  Darley's  act.  I  wish  poets 
would  write  a  little  plainer ;  he  begins  some  of  his  words 
with  a  letter  which  is  unknown  to  the  English  tj^pography. 
"  Yours,  most  truly,  C.  Lamb. 

"  p.g, — Pray  let  me  know  when  you  return.  We  are  at 
Mr.  Walden's,  Church-street,  Edmonton  ;  no  longer  at 
Enfield.  You  will  be  amused  to  hear  that  my  sister  and 
I  have,  with  the  aid  of  Emma,  scrambled  through  the 
'  Inferno,'  by  the  blessed  furtherance  of  your  polar-star 
translation.  I  think  we  scarce  left  anything  unmadeout. 
But  our  partner  has  left  us,  and  we  have  not  yet  resumed. 
Mary's  chief  pride  in  it  was  that  she  should  some  day 
brag  of  it  to  you.  Your  'Dante'  and  Sandys'  '  Ovid'  are 
the  only  helpmates  of  translations.  Neither  of  you  shirk 
a  word. 

"  Fairfax's  '  Tasso'  is  no  translation  at  all.     It's  better 


23b  LETTER   TO    MOXON. 

in  some   places,  but  it  merely  observes  the   number  of 
stanzas  ;  as  for  images,  similes,  &c.,  be  finds  'em  himself, 
and  never  '  troubles  Peter  for  the  matter.' 
"  In  haste,  dear  Gary,  yours  ever, 

"  C.  Lamb. 

"Has  M.  sent  you  'Elia,'  second  volume ?  if  not  he 
shall." 

Miss  Lamb  did  not  escape  all  the  cares  of  housekeep- 
ing by  the  new  arrangement :  the  following  little  note 
shows  the  grotesque  uses  to  which  Lamb  turned  the  smal- 
ler household  anxieties : — 

TO  MR.  MOXON. 

"1833. 

"  I>ear  M. — Mary  and  I  are  very  poorly.  We  have 
had  a  sick  child,  who,  sleeping  or  not  sleeping,  next  me, 
with  a  pasteboard  partition  between,  killed  my  sleep. 
The  little  bastard  is  gone.  My  bedfellows  are  cough  and 
cramp  ;  we  sleep  three  in  a  bed.  Domestic  arrangements 
(baker,  butcher,  and  all)  devolve  on  Mary.  Don't  come 
yet  to  this  house  of  pest  and  age  !  We  propose,  when 
you  and  E.  agree  on  the  time,  to  come  up  and  meet  you 

at  the  B 's,  say  a  week  hence,  but  do  you  make  the 

appointment. 

"  Mind,  our  spirits  are  good,  and  we  are  happy  in  your 
happinesses.  C.  L. 

"  Our  old  and  ever  loves  to  dear  Emma." 


The  following  is  Lamb's  reply  to  a  welcome  communi- 
cation of  Sonnets,  addressed  by  the  bridegroom  to  the 


LETTERS    TO    MOXON.  239 

fair  object  of  Lamb's  regard — beautiful  in  themselves — • 
and  endeared  to  Lamb  by  honored  memories  and  generous 
liopes : — 

TO  MR.  MOXON. 

"Nov.  29th,  1833. 

"  Mary  is  of  opinion  with  me,  that  two  of  these  Sonnets 
are  of  a  higher  grade  than  any  poetry  you  have  done  yet. 
The  one  to  Emma  is  so  pretty !  I  have  only  allowed  my- 
self to  transpose  a  word  in  the  third  line.  Sacred  shall 
it  be  from  any  intermeddling  of  mine.  But  we  jointly 
beg  that  you  will  make  four  lines  in  the  room  of  the  four 
last.  Read  '  Darby  and  Joan,'  in  Mrs.  Moxon's  first 
album.  There  you'll  see  hoAV  beautiful  in  age  the  looking 
back  to  youthful  years  in  an  old  couple  is.  But  it  is  a 
violence  to  the  feelings  to  anticipate  that  time  in  youth. 
I  hope  you  and  Emma  will  have  many  a  quarrel  and  many 
a  make-up  (and  she  is  beautiful  in  reconciliation  !)  before 
the  dark  days  shall  come,  in  which  ye  shall  say  'there  is 
small  comfort  in  them.'  You  have  begun  a  sort  of  charac- 
ter of  Emma  in  them,  very  sweetly ;  carry  it  on,  if.  you 
can,  through  the  last  lines. 

"  I  love  the  sonnet  to  my  heart,  and  you  sliall  finish  it, 
and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  furnish  a  line  towards  it.  So 
much  for  tliat.     The  next  best  is  to  the  Ocean. 

'  Yc  giilliints  winds,  if  e'er  your  lusty  cheeks 
Blew  longing  loVer  to  his  mistress'  sido, 
0,  puffj'our  loudest,  spread  the  canvas  wide,' 

is  spirited.  The  last  line  I  altered,  and  have  re-altered  it 
as  it  stood.  It  is  closer.  These  two  are  your  best.  But 
take  a  good  deal  of  time  in  finishing  the  first.  How  proud 
should  Emma  be  of  her  poets  ! 


240  LETTERS   TO    MOXON. 

"  Perhaps  '  0  Ocean'  (thougli  I  like  it)  is  too  much  of 
the  open  vowels,  which  Pope  objects  to.  '  Great  Ocean  !' 
is  obvious.  To  save  sad  thoughts  I  think  is  better  (though 
not  good)  than  for  the  mind  to  save  herself.  But  'tis  a 
noble  Sonnet.     '  St.  Cloud'  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with. 

"If  I  return  the  Sonnets,  think  it  no  disrespect,  for  I 
look  for  a  printed  copy.  You  have  done  better  than  ever. 
And  now  for  a  reason  I  did  not  notice  'em  earlier.  On 
Wednesday  they  came,  and  on  Wednesday  I  was  a  gad- 
ding. Mary  gave  me  a  holiday,  and  I  set  off  to  Snow 
Hill.  From  Snow  Hill  I  deliberately  was  marching  down, 
with  noble  Holborn  before  me,  framing  in  mental  cogi- 
tation a  map  of  the  dear  London  in  prospect,  thinking  to 
traverse  Wardour-street,  &c.,  when,  diabolically,  I  wad 
interrupted  by 

Heigh-ho ! 
Little  Barrow  ! — 

Emma  knows  him — and  prevailed  on  to  spend  the  day  at 
his  sister's,  where  was  an  album,  and  (0,  march  of  intel- 
lect !)  plenty  of  literary  conversation,  and  more  acquain- 
tance with  the  state  of  modern  poetry  than  I  could  keep 
up  with.  I  was  positively  distanced.  Knowles'  play, 
which,  epilogued  by  me,  lay  on  the  Piano,  alone  made  me 
hold  up  my  head.  When  I  came  home,  I  read  your  let- 
ter, and  glimpsed  at  your  beautiful  sonnet, 

'  Fair  art  thou  as  the  morning,  my  young  bride/ 

.•\nd  dwelt  upon  it  in  a  confused  brain,  but  determined  not 
to  open  them  all  next  day,  being  in  a  state  not  to  be  told 
of  at  Chatteris.  Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  Emma,  lest  the 
daughters  triumph !  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  I 
wish  you  could  come  on  Tuesday  with  your  fair  bride. 


LETTER    TO    ROGERS.  241 

Whv  can't  you  !  Do.  We  are  thankful  to  your  sister 
For  being  of  the  party.  ComOj.  and  bring  a  sonnet  on 
Mary's  birthday.  Love  to  the  whole  Moxonry,  and  tell 
E.  I  every  day  love  her  more  and  miss  her  less.  Tell  her 
so,  from  her  loving  uncle,  as  she  has  let  me  call  myself. 
I  bought  a  fine  embossed  card  yesterday,  and  ^yrotc  for 
the  pawnbrokeress's  album.  She  is  a  Miss  Brown,  enga- 
ged to  a  Mr.  White.  One  of  the  lines  was  (I  forgot  the 
rest — but  she  had  them  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice ;  she 
is  going  out  to  India  with  her  husband) : — 

'  Ma}'  your  fame, 
And  fortune,  Fniiices,  Whiten  with  j-our  name  !' 

Not  bad  as  a  pun.  I  ^vill  expect  you  before  two  on  Tues- 
day.    I  am  Avell  and  happy,  tell  E." 


The  following  is  Lamb's  letter  of  acknowledgment  to 
the  author  of  the  "Pleasures  of  Memory,"  for  an  early  copy 
of  his  "Illustrated  Poems,"  of  a  share  in  the  publication  of 
which,  Mr.  Moxon  Avas  "justly  vain."  The  artistical 
allusions  are  to  Stothard ;  the  allusions  to  the  poet's  own 
kindnesses  need  no  explanation  to  those  who  have  been 
enabled  by  circumstances,  which  now  and  then  transpire, 
to  guess  at  the  generous  course  of  his  life. 


"^  TO    MR.    ROGERS. 

'Dec.  1S33. 

"  My  dear  Sir. — Your  book,  by  the  unremitting  punc- 
tuality of  your  publisher,  has  reached  me  thus  early.  I 
have  not  opened  it,  nor  Avill  till  to-morrow,  Avhen  I  promise 
myself  a  thorough  reading  of  it.  The  '  Pleasures  of 
Memory'  was  the  first    school-present    I  made    to   Mrs. 

21 


242  LETTER   TO    ROGERS. 

Moxon ;  it  has  those  nice  woodcuts,  and  I  believe  she 
keeps  it  still.  Believe  me,  that  all  the  kindness  you  have 
shown  to  the  husband  of  that  excellent  person  seems  done 
unto  myself.  I  have  tried  my  hand  at  a  sonnet  in  the 
'  Times.'  But  the  turn  I  gave  it,  though  I  hoped  it  would 
not  displease  you,  I  thought  might  not  be  equally  agree- 
able to  your  artist.  I  met  that  dear  old  man  at  poor 
Henry's  with  you,  and  again  at  Gary's,  and  it  was  sub- 
lime to  see  him  sit,  deaf,  and  enjoy  all  that  was  going  on 
in  mirth  with  the  company.  He  reposed  upon  the  many 
graceful,  many  fantastic  images  he  had  created  ;  with 
them  he  dined,  and  took  wine.  I  have  ventured  at  an 
antagonist  copy  of  verses,  in  the  'Athenaeum,'  to  him,  in 
which  he  is  everything,  and  you  as  nothing.  He  is  no 
lawyer  who  cannot  take  two  sides.  But  I  am  jealous  of 
the  combination  of  the  sister  arts.  Let  them  sparkle  apart. 
What  injury  (short  of  the  theatres)  did  not  Boydell's  Shaks- 
peare  Gallery  do  me  with  Shakspeare  ?  to  have  Opie's  Shaks- 
peare,  Northcote's  Shakspeare,  light-headed  Fuseli's  Shaks- 
peare, heavy-headed  Bomney's  Shakspeare,  wooden-headed 
West's  Shakspeare  (though  he  did  the  best  in  Lear),  deaf- 
headed  Beynold's  Shakspeare,  instead  of  my,  and  every- 
body's Shakspeare  ;  to  be  tied  down  to  an  authentic  face 
of  Juliet !  to  have  Imogen's  portrait !  to  confine  the  illimi- 
table !  I  like  you  and  Stothard  (you  best),  but  '  out  upon 
this  half-faced  fellowship  !'  Sir,  when  I  have  read  the 
book,  I  may  trouble  you,  through  Moxon,  with  some  faint 
criticisms.  It  is  not  the  flatteringest  compliment  in  a  let- 
ter to  an  author  to  say,  you  have  not  read  his  book  yet. 
But  the  devil  of  a  reader  he  must  be,  who  prances  through 
it  in  five  minutes ;  and  no  longer  have  I  received  the  par- 
cel. It  was  a  little  tantalising  to  me  to  receive  a  letter 
from  Landor,  Gehir  Landor,  from  Florence,  to  say  he  was 


LETTER  TO  MISS  FRYER.  243 

just  sitting  down  to  read  my  'Elia,' just  received;  but 
the  letter  was  to  go  out  before  the  reading.  There  are 
calamities  in  authorship  which  only  authors  know.  I  am 
going  to  call  on  Moxon  on  Monday,  if  the  throng  of  car- 
•iages  in  Dover-street,  on  the  morn  of  publication,  do  not 
barricade  me  out. 

"  With  manj^  thanks,  and  most  respectful  remembrancea 
to  your  sister,  Yours,  C.  Lamb. 

"  Have  you  seen  Coleridge's  happy  exemplification  in 
English  of  the  Ovidian  Elegiac  metre  ? 

In  the  Hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  current, 
In  the  Pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  down. 

"  My  sister  is  papering  up  the  book — careful  soul !" 


Lamb  and  his  sister  were  now,  for  the  last  year  of  their 
united  lives,  alwa^-s  together.  What  his  feelings  were  in 
this  companionship,  when  his  beloved  associate  was  de- 
prived of  reason,  will  be  seen  in  the  following  most  affect- 
ing letter,  to  an  old  schoolfellow  and  very  dear  friend  of 
Mrs.  Moxon 's — since  dead — Avho  took  an  earnest  interest 
in  their  welfare. 

TO    MISS    FRYER. 

"Feb.  14,1834. 

"  Dear  ^Miss  Fryer. — Your  letter  found  me  just  returned 
from  keeping  my  birthday  (pretty  innocent !)  at  Dover- 
street.  I  see  them  pretty  often.  I  have  since  had  letters 
of  business  to  write,  or  should  have  replied  earlier.  In 
one  word,  be  less  uneasy  about  me  !  I  bear  my  privations 
very  well ;  I  am  not  in  the  depths  of  desolation,  as  here- 
tofore.    Y^our  admonitions  are  not  lost  upon  me.     Y'our 


244  LETTER  TO  MISS  FRYER. 

kindness  has  sunk  into  mj  heart.  Have  faith  in  me  !  It 
is  no  ncAY  thing  for  me  to  be  left  to  my  sister.  When  she 
is  not  violent,  her  rambling  chat  is  better  to  me  than  the 
sense  and  sanity  of  this  world.  Her  heart  is  obscured, 
not  buried  ;  it  breaks  out  occasionally  ;  and  one  can  dis- 
cern a  strong  mind  struggling  with  the  billows  that  have 
gone  over  it.  I  could  be  nowhere  happier  than  under  the 
same  roof  with  her.  Her  memory  is  unnaturally  strong  ; 
and  from  ages  past,  if  we  may  so  call  the  earliest  records 
of  our  poor  life,  she  fetches  thousands  of  names  and  things 
that  never  would  have  dawned  upon  me  again,  and  thou- 
sands from  the  ten  years  she  lived  before  me.  What  took 
place  from  earliest  girlhood  to  her  coming  of  age  prin- 
cipally, lives  again  (every  important  thing,  and  every 
trifle)  in  her  brain,  with  the  vividness  of  real  presence. 
For  twelve  hours  incessantly  she  will  pour  out  without 
intermission,  all  her  past  life,  forgetting  nothing,  pouring 
out  name  after  name  to  the  Waldens,  as  a  dream  ;  sense 
and  nonsense ;  truths  and  errors  huddled  together ;  a 
medley  between  inspiration  and  possession.  "What  things 
we  are  !  I  know  you  will  bear  with  me,  talking  of  these 
things.  It  seems  to  ease  me,  for  I  have  nobody  to  tell 
these  things  to  now.  Emma,  I  see,  has  got  a  harp  !  and 
is  learning  to  play.  She  has  framed  her  three  Walto>n 
pictures,  and  pretty  they  look.  That  is  a  book  you  should 
read ;  such  sweet  religion  in  it,  next  to  Woolman's ! 
though  the  subject  be  baits,  and  hooks,  and  worms,  and 
fishes.  She  has  my  copy  at  present,  to  do  two  more  from. 
"Very,  very  tired!  I  began  this  epistle,  having  been 
epistolising  all  the  morning,  and  very  kindly  would  I  end 
it,  could  I  find  adequate  expressions  to  your  kindness. 
We  did  set  our  minds  on  seeing  you  in  spring.  One  of  us 
will  indubitably.     But  I  am  not  skilled  in  almanac  learn- 


LETTER    TO    WORDSWORTH.  245 

ing,  to  know  "when  spring  precisely  begins  and  ends. 
Pardon  my  blots  ;  I  am  glad  you  like  your  book.  I  wish 
it  had  been  half  as  worthy  of  your  acceptance  as  John 
Woolman.     But  'tis  a  good-natured  book." 

A  few  days  afterwards  Lamb's  passionate  desire  to 
serve  a  most  deserving  friend  broke  out  in  the  following 
earnest  little  letter  : — 

TO  MR.  WORDSWORTn. 

'•  Church-street,  Edmonton, 

"February  22,  1834. 

"  Dear  Wordsworth. — I  write  from  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing. The  oldest  and  best  friends  I  have  left  are  in  trouble. 
A  branch  of  them  (and  they  of  the  best  stock  of  God's 
creatures,  I  believe)  is  establishing  a  school  at  Carlisle ; 

her  name  is  L M ;  her  address,  75,  Castle-street, 

Carlisle ;  her  qualities  (and  her  motives  for  this  exertion) 
are  the  most  amiable,  most  upright.  For  thirty  years  she 
has  been  tried  by  me,  and  on  her  behavior  I  would  stake 
my  soul.  0,  if  you  can  recommend  her,  how  would  I  love 
you — if  I  could  love  you  better  !  Pray,  pray,  recommend 
her.'  She  is  as  good  a  human  creature — next  to  my  sister, 
perhaps,  the  most  exemplary  female  I  ever  knew.  Moxon 
tells  me  yoii  would  like  a  letter  from  me  ;  you  shall  have 
one.  This  I  cannot  mingle  up  with  any  nonsense  which 
you  usually  tolerate  from  C.  Lamb.  Need  he  add  loves 
to  wife,  sister,  and  all  ?  Poor  jNIary  is  ill  again,  after  a 
short  lucid  interval  of  four  or  five  months.  In  short,  I 
may  call  her  half  dead  to  me.  IIow  good  you  are  to  mc. 
Yours  with  fervor  of  friendship,  for  ever,  C.  L. 

"  If  you  want  references,  the  P)ishop  of  Carlisle  may  be 

21* 


24G  LETTER  TO  GARY. 

one.     L 's  sister  (as  frood  as  she,  she  cannot  be  better 

tliough  she  tries)  educated  the  daughters  of  the  late  Earl 
of  Carnarvon,  and  he  settled  a  handsome  annuity  on  her 
for  life.     In  short  all  the  family  are  a  sound  rock." 

A  quiet  dinner  at  the  British  Museum  with  Mr.  Gary 
once  a  month,  to  Avhich  Lamb  looked  forward  with  almost 
boyish  eagerness,  was  now  almost  his  only  festival.  In  a 
little  note  to  his  host  about  this  time,  he  hints  at  one  of 
his  few  physical  tastes.  "  We  are  thinking,"  he  says,  "of 
roast  shoulder  of  mutton  with  onion  sauce,  but  I  scorn  to 
prescribe  to  the  hospitalities  of  mine  host.''  The  follow- 
ing, after  these  festivities  had  been  interrupted  by  Mr. 
Gary's  visit  to  the  Continent,  is  their  last  memorial : 

TO    MR.    GARY. 

"  September  12th,  1834, 

"  By  Cot's  plessing  we  will  not  be  absence  at  the  grace." 

*'  Dear  C. — We  long  to  see  you,  and  hear  account  of 
your  peregrinations,  of  the  Tun  at  Heidelburg,  the  Clock 
at  Strasburg,  the  statue  at  Rotterdam,  the  dainty  Rhenish, 
and  poignant  Moselle  wines,  Westphalian  hams,  and  Bo- 
targoes  of  Altona.  But  perhaps  you  have  seen,  not  tasted 
any  of  these  things. 

"  Yours,  very  glad  to  chain  you  back  again  to  your 
proper  centre,  books  and  Bibliothecse, 

"  C.  and  M.  Lamb. 

"I  have  only  got  your  note  just  \\o\f  per  Tiegligentiam 
periniqui  Moxoni." 

The  following  little  note  has  a  mournful  interest,  as 
Lamb's  last  scrap  of  writing.     It  is  dated  on  the  very  day 


LETTER    TO    MRS.  DYER.  247 

on  Avliicli  erysipelas  followed  the  accident,  apparently  tri- 
ding,  which  five  days  after  terminated  in  his  death.  It  is 
addressed  to  the  wife  of  his  oldest  survivino;  friend : 


TO  MRS.   DYER. 

"  December  22(1,  1834 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Dyer. — I  am  very  uneasy  about  a  Booh 
which  I  either  have  lost  or  left  at  your  house  on  Thursday. 
It  was  the  book  I  went  out  to  fetch  from  Miss  Buffam's, 
while  the  tripe  was  frying.  It  is  called  '  Phillip's  Thea- 
trum  Poetarum,'  but  it  is  an  English  book.  I  think  I  left 
it  in  the  parlor.  It  is  Mr.  Gary's  book,  and  I  would  not 
lose  it  for  the  world.  Pray,  if  you  find  it,  book  it  at  the 
Swan,  Snow  llill,  by  an  Edmonton  stage  immediately,  di- 
rected to  Mr.  Lamb,  Church-street,  Edmonton,  or  write  to 
say  you  cannot  find  it.  I  am  quite  anxious  about  it.  If 
it  is  lost,  I  shall  never  like  tripe  again. 

'-  With  kindest  love  to  Mr.  Dyer  and  all, 

."Yours  truly,  C.  Lamb." 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

Iamb's  tvednesday  nights  compared  with  the  evenings  of  Holland  housb 

HIS  dead  companions,  DVER,  GODWIN,  THELWALL,  HAZLITT,  BARNES,  BAY- 

UON,  COLERIDGE,  AND  OTHERS — LAST  GLIMPSES  OP  CHARLES  AND  MARY  LAMB. 

"  Gone;  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  !" 

Two  circles  of  rare  social  enjoyment — differing  as  widely 
as  possible  in  all  external  circumstances — but  each  supe- 
rior in  its  kind  to  all  others,  during  the  same  period  frankly 
opened  to  men  of  letters — now  existing  only  in  the  memo- 
ries of  those  who  are  fast  departing  from  us — may,  with- 
out offence,  be  placed  side  by  side  in  grateful  recollection  ; 
they  are  the  dinners  at  Holland  House  and  the  suppers  of 
"the  Lambs''  at  the  Temple,  Great  Russell-street  and  Is- 
lington. Strange,  at  first,  as  this  juxta-position  may  seem, 
a,  little  reflection  will  convince  the  few  survivors  who  have 
enjoyed  both,  that  it  involves  no  injustice  to  either ;  while 
with  those  who  arc  too  young  to  have  been  admitted  to 
these  rare  fe.stivitics,  we  may  exercise  the  privilege  of  age 
by  boastiiig.^hat  good'  fellowship  Avas  once  enjoyed,  and 
what  "good  talk"  there  was  once  in  the  world  ! 

But  let;  us  call  to  mind  the  aspects  of  each  scene,  before 
we  attempt  to  tell  of  the  conversation,  which  will  be  harder 
to  recall  and  impossible  to  characterise.  And  first,  let  us 
invite  the  reader  to  assist  at  a  dinner  at  Holland"  House  in 
the  height  of  the  London  and  Parliamentary  sea^'oii,  say  a 
Saturday  in  June.  It  is  scarcely  seven — for  the  luxitries 
of  the  house  are  enhanced  by  a  punctuality  in  the  main 
object  of  the  day,  which  yields  to  no  dihitory  guest  of 
whatever  pretension — and  you  are  seated  in  an  oblong  room, 
(248) 


HOLLAND  HOUSE.  249 

rich  111  ok!  gliding,  opposite  a  deep  rcccs.«,  pierced  by  large 
old  Avindows,  through  which  the  rich  branches  of  trees, 
bathed  in  golden  light,  just  admit  the  Taint  outline  of  the 
Surrey  Hills.  Among  the  guests  are  some  perhaps  of  the 
liighest  rank,  always  some  of  high  political  importance, 
about  whom  the  interest  of  busy  life  gathers,  intermixed 
with  others  eminent  already  in  literature  or  art,  or  of  that 
dawning  promise  which  the  hostess  delights  to  discover 
and  the  host  to  smile  on.  All  are  assembled  for  the  pur- 
pose of  enjoyment ;  the  anxieties  of  the  minister,  the  fever- 
ish struggles  of  the  partisan,  fhe  silent  toils  of  the  artist 
or  critic,  are  finished  for  the  week ;  professional  and  liter- 
ary jealousies  are  hushed  ;  sickness,  decrepitude,  and  death 
are  silently  voted  shadows  ;  and  the  brilliant  assemblage 
is  prepared  to  exercise  to  the  highest  degree  the  extraor- 
dinary privilege  of  mortals  to  live  in  the  knowledge  of  mor- 
tality without  its  consciousness,  and  to  people  the  present 
hour  with  delights,  as  if  a  man  lived  and  laughed  and  en- 
joyed in  this  world  for  ever.  Every  appliance  of  pliysical 
luxury  which  the  most  delicate  art  can  supply,  attends  on 
each;  every  faint  wish  Avhich  luxury  creates  is  anticipated; 
the  noblest  and  most  gracious  countenance  in  the  world 
smiles  over  the  happiness  it  is  diffusing,  and  redoubles  it 
by  cordial  invitations  and  encouraging  words,  which  set 
the  humblest  stranger  guest  at  perfect  ease.  As  the  din- 
ner merges  into  the  desert,  and  the  sunset  casts  a  richer 
glow  on  the  branches,  still,  or  lightly  waving  in  the  even- 
ing light,  and  on  the  scene  within,  the  harmony  of  all  sen- 
sations becomes  more  perfect ;  a  delighted  and  delighting 
chuckle  invites  attention  to  some  joyous  sally  of  the  richest 
intellectual  wit  reflected  in  the  faces  of  all,  even  to  the  fa- 
vorite page  in  green,  who  attgnds  his  mistress  with  duty 
like  that  of  the  antique  world  ;  the  choicest  Avines  are  en- 


250  HOLLAND  HOUSE. 

hanccil  in  their  liberal  but  temperate  use  by  the  vista 
opened  in  Lord  Holland's  tales  of  bacchanalian  evenings 
at  Brookes's,  with  Fox  and  Sheridan,  when  potations 
deeper  and  move  serious  rewarded  the  Statesman's  toils 
and  shortened  his  days  ;  until  at  length  the  serener  plea- 
sure of  conversation,  of  the  now  carelessly  scattered  groups, 
is  enjoyed  in  that  old,  long,  unrivalled  library  in  which 
Addison  mused,  and  wrote,  and  drank  ;  where  every  living 
grace  attends  ;  "  and  more'  than  echoes  talk  along  the 
walls."  One  happy  peculiarity  of  these  assemblies  was, 
the  number  of  persons  in  different  stations  and  of  various 
celebrity,  Avho  were  gratified  by  seeing,  still  more  in  hear- 
ing and  knowing  each  other ;  the  statesman  was  relieved 
from  care  by  association  with  the  poet  of  whom  he  had 
heard  and  partially  read  ;  and  the  poet  was  elevated  by 
the  courtesy  which  "  bared  the  great  heart"  which  "beats 
beneath  a  star  ;"  and  each  felt,  not  rarely,  the  true  dig- 
nity of  the  other,  modestly  expanding  under  the  most  ge- 
nial auspices. 

Now  turn  to  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  at  ten  o'clock, 
when  the  sedater  part  of  the  company  are  assembled,  and 
the  happier  stragglers  are  dropping  in  from  the  play.  Let 
it  be  any  autumn  or  winter  month,  when  the  fire  is  blazing 
steadily,  and  the  clean-swept  hearth  and  whist-tablcs  speak 
of  the  spirit  of  Mrs.  Battle,  and  serious  looks  require  "  the 
rigor  of  the  gamx?."  The  furniture  is  old-fiishioned  and 
worn  ;  the  ceiling  low,  and  not  wholly  unstained  by  traces 
of  "  the  great  plant,"  though  now  virtuously  forborne: 
but  the  Ilogarths,  in  narrow  black  frames,  abounding  in 
infinite  thought,  humor  and  pathos,  enrich  the  walls  ;  and 
all  things  wear  an  air  of  comfort  and  hearty  Englisli 
welcome.  Lamb  himself,  yet  unrelaxed  by  the  glass,  is 
sitting  with  a  sort  of  Quaker  primness  at  the  whist-table, 


LAMB'S   SUPPERS.  251 

the  gentleness  of  his  melancholy  smile  half  lost  in  his  in- 
tentness  on  the  game  ;  his  partner,  the  author  of  "  Political 
Justice,"  (the  majestic  expression  of  his  large  head  not 
disturbed  by  disproportion  of  his  comparatively  diminutive 
stature,)  is  regarding  his  hand  with  a  philosophic  but  not 
a  careless  eye ;  Captain  Burney,  only  not  venerable 
because  so  young  in  spirit,  sits  between  them ;  and  H.  C. 
H.,  who  alone  now  and  then  breaks  the  proper  silence,  to 
welcome  some  incoming  guest,  is  his  happy  partner — true 
winner  in  the  game  of  life,  whose  leisure  achieved  early, 
is  devoted  to  his  friends  !  At  another  table,  just  beyond 
the  circle  which  extends  from  the  fire,  sit  another  four. 
The  broad,  burly,  jovial  bulk  of  John  Lamb,  the  Ajax 
Telamon  of  the  slender  clerks  of  the  old  South  Sea  House, 
whom  he  sometimes  introduces  to  the  rooms  of  his  younger 
brother,  surprised  to  learn  from  them  that  he  is  growing 
famous,  confronts  the  stately  but  courteous  Alsager ; 
while  P.,  "  his  fcAV  hairs  bristling"  at  gentle  objurgation, 
Avatches  his  partner  M.  B.,  dealing,  with  "soul  more 
Avhite"*  than  the  hands  of  which  Lamb  once  said,  "  M.,  if 
dirt  was  trumps,  what  hands  you  would  hold !"  In  one 
corner  of  the  room,  you  may  see  the  pale  earnest  counte- 
nance of  Charles  Lloyd,  who  is  discoursing  "  of  fate,  free- 
will, fore-knowledge  absolute,"  with  Leigh  Hunt;  and,  if 
you  choose  to  listen,  you  will  scarcely  know  which  most  to 
admire — the  severe  logic  of  the  melancholy  reasoner,  or 
its  graceful  evasion  by  the  tricksome  fantasy  of  the  joy- 
ous poet.  Basil  Montague,  gentle  enthusiast  in  the  cause 
of  humanity,  which  he  has  lived  to  sec  triumphant,  is  pour- 
ing into  the  outstretched  car  of  George  Dyer  some  talc  of 

*  Lamb's  Sonnet,  dedicatory  of  his  first  volume  of  proso  to  this  cherished 
friend,  thus  concludes  : — 

"  Free  from  self-seekinjr,  envy,  low  design, 
I  have  not  found  a  whiter  eouI  than  thio^." 


252  lamb's  suppers. 

legalized  injustice,  wliicli  the  recipient  is  vainly  endeavor- 
ing to  comprehend.  Soon  the  room  fills ;  in  slouches 
Ilazlitt  from  the  theatre,  where  his  stubborn  anger  for 
Napoleon's  defeat  at  Waterloo  has  been  softened  bj  Miss 
Stephens's  angelic  notes,  which  might  "  chase  anger,  and 
grief,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain  from  mortal  or 
immortal  minds;"  Kenney,  with  a  tremulous  pleasure, 
announces  that  there  is  a  crowded  house  to  the  ninth  re- 
presentation of  his  new  comedy,  of  which  Lamb  lays 
down  his  cards  to  inquire :  or  Ayrton,  mildly  radiant, 
whispers  the  continual  triumph  of  "  Don  Giovanni,"  for 
which  Lamb,  incapable  of  opera,  is  happy  to  take  his  word. 
Now  and  then  an  actor  glances  on  us  from  "  the  rich 
Cathay"  of  the  world  behind  the  scenes,  Avitli  news  of  its 
brighter  human-kind,  and  with  looks  reflecting  the  public 
favor — Listen,  grave  beneath  the  weight  of  the  town's  re- 
gards— or  Miss  Kelly,  unexhausted  in  spirit  by  alterna- 
ting the  drolleries  of  high  farce  with  the  terrible  pathos 
of  melodrama — or  Charles  Kcmble  mirrors  the  chivalry 
of  thought,  and  ennobles  the  party  by  bending  on  them 
looks  beaming  with  the  aristocracy  of  nature.  Meanwhile 
Becky  lays  the  cloth  on  the  side-table,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  most  quiet,  sensible,  and  kind  of  women — who 
soon  compels  the  younger  and  more  hungry  of  the  guests 
to  partake  largely  of  the  cold  roast  lamb  or  boiled  beef, 
the  heaps  of  smoking  roasted  potatoes,  and  the  vast  jug 
of  porter,  often  replenished  from  the  foaming  pots,  which 
the  best  tap  of  Fleet-street  supplies.  Perfect  freedom  i 
prevails,  save  when  the  hospitable  pressure  of  the  mistress 
excuses  excess  ;  and  perhaps,  the  physical  enjoyment  of 
the  play-goer,  exhausted  with  pleasure,  or  of  the  author 
jaded  with  the  labor  of  the  brain,  is  not  less  than  that  of 
the  guests  at  the  most  charming  of  aristocratic  banquets. 


LAMB  S   SUPPERS.  253 

As  the  hot  water  and  its  accompaniments  appear,  and  the 
severities  of  whist  relax,  the  light  of  conversation  thickens  : 
Ilazlitt,  catching  the  influence  of  the  spirit  from  which  he 
has  lately  begun  to  abstain,  utters  some  fine  criticism  with 
struggling  emphasis  ;  Lamb  stammers  out  puns  suggestive 
of  wisdom,  for  happy  Barron  Field  to  admire  and  echa ; 
the  various  driblets  of  talk  combine  into  a  stream,  while 
Miss  Lamb  moves  gently  about  to  see  that  each  modest 
stranger  is  duly  served  ;  turning,  now  and  then,  an  anxious 
loving  eye  on  Charles,  Avhich  is  softened  into  a  half 
humorous  expression  of  resignation  to  inevitable  fate,  as 
he  mixes  his  second  tumbler  !  This  is  on  ordinary  nights, 
when  the  accustomed  Wednesday-men  assemble  ;  but  there 
is  a  difference  on  great  extra  nights,  gladdened  by  "the 
bright  visitations"  of  Wordsworth  or  Coleridge  : — the  cor- 
diality of  the  welcome  is  the  same,  but  a  sedater  wisdom 
prevails.  Happy  hours  were  they  for  the  young  disciple 
of  the  tTien  desperate,  now  triumphant  cause  of  Words- 
worth's genius,  to  be  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  poet 
who  had  opened  a  new  world  for  him  in  the  undiscovered 
riches  of  his  own  nature,  and  its  affinities  with  the  outer 
universe ;  whom  he  worshipped  the  more  devoutly  for  the 
world's  scorn  ;  for  whom  he  felt  the  future  in  the  instant, 
and  anticipated  the  "All  hail  hereafter  !"  which  the  great 
poet  has  lived  to  enjoy  !  To  win  him  to  speak  of  his  own 
poetry — to  hear  him  recite  its  noblest  passages — and  to 
join  in  his  brave  defiance  of  the  fashion  of  the  ao-e — was 
the  solemn  pleasure  of  such  a  season  ;  and,  of  course, 
superseded  all  minor  disquisitions.  So,  when  Coleridge 
came,  argument,  wit,  humor,  criticism  Avere  huslied  ;  the 
pertest,  smartest,  and  the  cleverest  felt  that  all  were 
assembled  to  listen  ;  and  if  a  canl-table  had  bfeu  filled,  or 

22 


254  SOCIAL    COMPARISON. 

a  dispute    begun    before    he  ■\vas    excited    to    continuous 
speech,  his  gentle  voice,  unduhiting  in  music,  soon 

"Suspended  wJu'-st,  and  took  with  ravishment 
The  thronging  audience." 

The  conversation  "which  animated  each  of  these  memo- 
rable circles,  approximated,  in  essence,  much  more  nearly 
than  might  be  surmised  from  the  difference  in  station  of 
the  principal  talkers,  and  the  contrast  in  physical  appli- 
ances; that  of  the  bowered  saloon  of  Holland  House  hav- 
ing more  of  earnestness  and  depth,  and  that  of  the  Temple- 
attic  more  of  airy  grace  than  "would  be  predicated  by  a  su- 
perficial observer.  The  former  possessed  the  peculiar  inte- 
rest of  directly  bordering  on  the  scene  of  political  conflict, 
gathering  together  the  most  eloquent  leaders  of  the  Whig 
party,  whose  repose  from  energetic  action  spoke  of  the 
■week's  conflict,  and  in  Avhom  the  moment's  enjoyment  de- 
rived a  peculiar  charm  from  the  perilous  glories  of  the 
struggle  "which  the  morrow  was  to  renew — when  power 
was  just  within  reach,  or  held  with  a  convulsive  grasp — 
like  the  eager  and  solemn  pleasure  of  the  soldiers'  banquet 
in  the  pause  of  victory.  The  pervading  spirit  of  Lamb's 
parties  was  also  that  of  social  progress  ;  but  it  was  the  spirit 
of  the  dreamers  and  thinkers,  not  of  the  combatants  of  the 
world — men  who,  it  may  be,  drew  their  theories  from  a 
deeper  range  of  meditation,  and  embraced  the  future  with 
more  comprehensive  hope — but  about  \vhom  the  immediate 
interest  of  party  did  not  gather;  whose  victories  were  nil 
within ;  whose  rewards  were  visions  of  blessings  for  their  spe- 
cies in  the  furthest  horizon  of  benevolent  prophecy.  If  a 
profoundcr  thought  was  sometimes  dragged  to  liiilit  in  the 
dim  circle  of  Lamb's  companions  than  was  native  to  the 
brighter  sphere,  it  was  still  a  rare  felicity  to  watch  theif 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  255 

the  union  of  elegance  with  purpose  in  some  leader  of 
party — the  delicate,  almost  fragile  grace  of  illustration  in 
some  one,  perhaps  destined  to  lead  advancing  multitudes, 
or  to  withstand  their  rashness ;  to  observe  the  growth  of 
strength  in  the  midst  of  beauty  expanding  from  the  sense 
of  the  heroic  past,  as  the  famed  Basil  tree  of  Boccaccio 
grew  from  the  immolated  relic  beneath  it.  If  the  alter- 
nations in  the  former  oscillated  between  wider  extremes, 
touching  on  the  wildest  farce  and  most  earnest  tragedy  of 
life  ;  the  rich  space  of  brilliant  comedy  which  lived  ever 
between  them  in  the  latter,  was  diversified  by  serious  inte- 
rests and  heroic  allusions.  Sydney  Smith's  wit — not  so 
wild,  so  grotesque,  so  deep-searching  as  Lamb's — had  even 
more  quickness  of  intellectual  demonstration ;  wedded 
moral  and  political  wisdom  to  happiest  language,  with  a 
more  rapid  perception  of  secret  affinities  ;  Avas  capable  of 
producing  epigrammatic  splendor  reflected  more  perma- 
nently in  the  mind,  than  the  fantastic  brilliancy  of  those 
rich  conceits  which  Lamb  stammered  out  with  his  painful 
smile.  Mackintosh  might  vie  with  Coleridge  in  vast  and 
various  knoAvledge ;  but  there  the  competition  between 
these  great  talkers  ends,  and  the  contrast  begins  ;  the 
contrast  between  facility  and  inspiration ;  between  the 
ready  access  to  each  ticketed  and  labelled  compartment 
of  history,  science,  art,  criticism,  and  the  genius  that  fused 
and  renovated  all.  But  then  a  younger  spirit  appeared 
at  Lord  Holland's  table  to  redress  the  balance — not  so 
poetical  as  Coleridge,  but  more  lucid — in  whose  vast  and 
joyous  memory  all  the  mighty  past  lived  and  glowed 
anew;  whose  declamations  presented,  not  groups  tinged 
•with  distant  light,  like  those  of  Coleridge,  but  a  series  of 
historical  figures  in  relief,  exhibited  in  bright  succession, 
as  if  by  dioramic  art  there  glided  before  us  embossed  sur- 


256  SOCIAL    COJIPARISON. 

faces  of  heroic  life.*  Rogers  too  was  there — connectino 
the  literature  of  the  last  age  with  this,  partaking  of  some 
of  the  best  characteristics  of  both — whose  first  poem 
sparkled  in  the  closing  darkness  of  the  last  century  "  like 
a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear,''  and  who  was  advancing 
from  a  youth  which  had  anticipated  memory,  to  an  age  of 
kindness  and  hope  ;  and  jMoore,  who  paused  in  the  flutter- 
ing expression  of  graceful  trifles,  to  whisper  some  deep- 
toned  thouo'ht  of  Ireland's  wrongs  and  sorrows. 

Literature  and  Art  supplied  the  favorite  topics  to  each 
of  these  assemblies — both  discussed  with  earnest  admira- 
tion, but  surveyed  in  different  aspects.  The  conversation 
at  Lord  HolUxnd's  was  wont  to  mirror  the  happiest  aspects 
of  the  livinji:  mind :  to  celebrate  the  latest  discoveries  in 


*  I  take  loiivo  to  copy  the  glowing  picture  of  the  evenings  of  Holland  House 
and  of  its  admirable  master,  drawn  bj'  this  favorite  guest  himself,  from  an  article 
which  adorned  the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  just  after  Lord  Holland's  death. 

"  The  time  is  coming  when,  perhaps,  a  few  old  men,  the  last  survivors  of 
our  generation,  will  in  vain  seek,  amidst  new  streets  and  squares,  and  railway 
stations,  for  the  site  of  that  dwelling  which  was  in  their  youth  the  favorite 
resort  of  wits  and  beauties — of  painters,  and  poets — of  scholars,  philosophers, 
and  statesmen.  'I'hey  will  then  remember,  with  strange  tenderness,  many  ob- 
jects once  fomiliar  to  them — the  avenue  and  the  terrace,  the  busts  and  tha 
paintings  ;  the  carving,  the  grotesque  gilding,  and  the  enigmatical  mottoes. 
With  peculiar  fondness,  they  will  reeal  that  venerable  chamber,  in  which  all 
the  antique  gravity  of  a  college  library  was  so  singularly  blended  with  all  that 
female  grace  and  wit  could  devise  to  embellish  a  drawing-room.  They  will  re- 
collect, not  unmoved,  those  shelves  loaded  with  the  varied  learning  of  many 
Sands  and  many  ages  ;  those  portraits  in  which  were  preserved  the  features  of 
the  best  and  wisest  Englishmen  of  two  generations.  They  will  recollect  how 
snany  men  who  have  guided  the  politics  of  Europe — who  have  moved  great 
assemblies  by  reason  and  eloquence — who  have  put  life  into  bronze  and  canvas, 
or  wlio  have  left  to  posterity  things  so  written  as  it  shall  not  willingly  let  them 
die — were  there  mi.\ed  with  all  that  was  loveliest  and  gayest  in  the  society  of 
the  mast  splendid  of  capitals.  They  will  remember  the  singular  character 
which  'belonged  to  that  circle,  in  which  every  talent  and  accomplishment, 
every  art  and  science  had  its  place.  They  will  remember  how  the  last  debate 
tvas  discussed  in  one  corner,  and  the  last  comedy  of  Scribe  in  another;  while 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  257 

science ;  to  echo  the  quarterly  decisions  of  imperial  criti- 
cism ;  to  reflect  the  modest  glow  of  young  reputations  ; — • 
all  Avas  gay,  graceful,  decisive,  as  if  the  pen  of  Jeffrey 
could  have  spoken ;  or,  if  it  reverted  to  old  times,  it  re- 
joiced in  those  classical  associations  Avhich  are  always 
young.  At  Lamb's,  on  the  other  hand,  the  topics  were 
chiefly  sought  among  the  obscure  and  remote  ;  the  odd, 
the  quaint,  the  fantastic  were  drawn  out  from  their  duh,ty 
recesses  ;  nothino;  could  be  more  foreiirn  to  its  embrt-co 
than  the  modern  circulating  library,  even  when  it  teemed 
with  the  Scotch  novels.  Whatever  the  subject  was,  luw- 
evcr,  in  the  more  aristocratic,  or  the  humbler  sphere ,  it 
was  always  discussed  by  tnose  best  entitled  to  talk  on  it ; 
no  others  had  a  chance  of  bcins:  heard.      This  rcmarkwble 


Wilkie  gazed  with  modest  admiration  on  Reynold's  Baretti ;  while  Mackintosh 
turned  over  Thomas  Aquinas  to  verify  a  quotation  ;  while  Talleyrand  related 
his  conversations  with  Barras  at  the  Luxemburg,  or  his  ride  with  Lannes  over 
the  field  of  Austerlitz.  They  will  remember  above  all,  the  grace — and  the 
kindness,  far  more  admirable  than  grace — with  which  the  princely  hospitality 
of  that  ancient  mansion  was  dispensed.  They  will  remember  the  venerable 
■md  benignant  countenance,  and  the  cordial  voice  of  him  who  bade  them  wel- 
!ome.  They  will  remember  that  temper  which  years  of  pain,  of  sickness,  of 
lameness,  of  confinement,  seemed  only  to  make  sweeter  and  sweeter  ;  and  that 
frank  politeness,  which  at  once  relieved  all  the  embarrassment  of  the  youngest 
and  most  timid  writer  or  artist,  who  found  himself  for  the  first  time  among 
Ambassadors  and  Earls.  They  will  remember  that  constant  flow  of  Conversa- 
tion, so  natural,  so  animated,  so  various,  so  rich  with  observation  and  anec- 
dote ;  that  wit  which  never  gave  a  wound ;  that  exquisite  mimicry  which 
ennobled,  instead  of  degrading;  that  goodness  of  heart  which  appeared  in 
every  look  and  accent,  and  gave  additional  value  to  every  talent  ami  acquiro- 
mcnt.  They  will  remember,  too,  that  ho  whose  name  they  hold  in  rcvorenco 
was  not  less  distinguished  by  the  inflexible  uprightness  of  his  political  conduct, 
Ihali  by  his  loving  disposition  and  his  winning  manners.  Tliey  will  reinem- 
ber  that,  in  the  last  lines  which  ho  traced,  he  expressed  his  joy  that  he  h.id 
done  nothing  unworthy  of  the  friend  of  Fox  and  Grey  :  and  they  will  have 
reason  to  feel  similar  joy,  if,  in  looking  back  on  manj'  troubled  years,  tliey 
cannot  accuse  themselves  of  having  done  anything  unwortliy  of  men  who  were 
distinguished  by  the  friendship  of  Lord  Holland." 
22* 


258  SOCIAL    COMPARISON. 

freedom  from  bores  was  produced  in  Lamb's  circle  by  tLe 
authoritative  texture  of  its  commanding  minds  ;  in  Lord 
Holland's,  by  the  more  direct,  and  more  genial  influence 
of  the  hostess,  "which  checked  that  tenacity  of  subject  and 
opinion  which  sometimes  broke  the  charm  of  Lamb's  par- 
ties by  "  a  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate."  Perhaps  beyond 
any  other  hostess — certainly  far  beyond  any  host,  Lady 
Holland  possessed  the  tact  of  perceiving,  and  the  power  of 
evoking  the  various  capacities  which  lurked  in  every  part 
of  the  brilliant  circles  over  Avhich  she  presided,  and  re- 
strained each  to  its  appropriate  sphere,  and  portion  of  the 
evening.  To  enkindle  the  enthusiasm  of  an  artist  on  the 
theme  over  which  he  had  achieved  the  most  facile  mastery : 
to  set  loose  the  heart  of  the  rustic  poet,  and  imbue  his 
speech  with  the  freedom  of  his  native  hills  ;  to  draw  from 
the  adventurous  traveller  a  breathing  picture  of  his  most 
imminent  danger  ;  or  to  embolden  the  bashful  soldier  to 
disclose  his  own  share  in  the  perils  and  glories  of  some  fa- 
mous battle-field  ;  to  encourage  the  generous  praise  of 
friendship  when  the  speaker  and  the  subject  reflected  in- 
terest on  each  other  ;  or  win  from  an  awkward  man  of  sci- 
ence the  secret  history  of  a  discovery  which  had  astonished 
the  world  ;  to  conduct  these  brilliant  developments  to  the 
height  of  satisfaction,  and  then  to  shift  the  scene  by  the 
magic  of  a  word,  were  among  her  nightly  successes.  And 
if  this  extraordinary  power  over  the  elements  of  social  en- 
joyment was  sometimes  wielded  without  the  entire  con- 
cealment of  its  despotism  ;  if  a  decisive  check  sometimes 
rebuked  a  speaker  who  might  intercept  the  variegated 
beauty  of  Jeffrey's  indulgent  criticism,  or  the  jest  aji- 
nounced  and  self-rewarded  in  Sydney  Smith's  cordial  and 
triumphant  laugh,  the  authority  was  too  clearly  exerted 
for  the  evening's  prosperity,  and  too  manifestly  imptdled 


SOCIAL    COMPARISON.  259 

by  an  urgent  consciousness  of  the  value  of  these  gohlcn 
hours  which  were  fleeting  witliin  its  confines,  to  sadden  the 
enforced  silence  with  more  thaii  a  momentary  regret.  If 
ever  her  prohibition — clear,  abrupt,  and  decisive — indi- 
cated more  than  a  preferable  regard  for  livelier  discourse, 
it  Avas  when  a  depreciatory  tone  was  adopted  towards  ge- 
nius, or  goodness,  or  honest  endeavor,  or  when  some  friend, 
personal  or  intellectual,  was  mentioned  in  slighting  phrase. 
Habituated  to  a  generous  partisanship,  by  strong  sympa- 
thy with  a  great  political  cause,  she  carried  the  fidelity  of 
her  devotion  to  that  cause  into  her  social  relations,  and 
was  ever  the  truest  and  the  fastest  of  friends.  The  ten- 
dency, often  more  idle  than  malicious,  to  soften  down  the 
intellectual  claims  of  the  absent,  which  so  insidiously  be- 
sets literary  conversation,  and  teaches  a  superficial  insin- 
cerity, even  to  substantial  esteem  and  regard,  and  which 
was  sometimes  insinuated  into  the  conversation  of  Lamb's 
friend's,  though  never  into  his  own,  found  no  favor  in  her 
presence;  and  hence  the  conversations  over  which  she  pre- 
sided, perhaps  beyond  all  that  ever  flashed  with  a  kindred 
splendor,  were  marked  by  that  integrity  of  good  nature 
which  might  admit  of  their  exact  repetition  to  every  living 
individual  whose  merits  wore  discussed,  without  the  dan- 
ger of  inflicting  pain.  Under  her  auspices,  not  only  all 
critical,  but  all  personal  talk  was  tinged  with  kindness ; 
the  strong  interest  which  she  took  in  the  happiness  of  her 
friends,  shed  a  peculiar  sunniness  over  the  aspects  of  life 
presented  by  the  common  topics  of  alliances,  and  marri- 
ages, and  promotions  ;  and  there  was  not  a  hopeful  engage- 
ment, or  a  happy  wedding,  or  a  promotion  of  a  friend's 
son,  or  a  new  intellectual  triumph  of  any  youth  with  whose 
name  and  history  she  was  familiar,  but  became  an  event 
on  which  she  expected  and  required  congratulation  us  on  a 


260  SOCIAL   COMPARISOIT. 

part  of  her  own  fortune.  Although  there  was  necessarily 
a  preponderance  in  her  society  of  the  sentiment  of  popu- 
lar progress,  which  once  was  cherished  almost  exclusively 
by  the  party  to  whom  Lord  Holland  was  united  by  sacred 
ties,  no  expression  of  triumph  in  success,  no  virulence  ir, 
sudden  disappointment,  was  evbr  permitted  to  wound  the 
most  sensitive  ears  of  her  conservative  guests.  It  might 
be  that  some  placid  comparison  of  recent  with  former 
times,  spoke  a  sense  of  freedom's  peaceful  victory ;  or 
that,  on  the  giddy  edge  of  some  great  party  struggle,  the 
festivities  of  the  evcnins;  mio;ht  take  a  more  serious  cast, 
as  news  arrived  from  the  scene  of  contest,  and  the  plea- 
sure might  be  deepened  by  the  peril ;  but  the  feeling  was 
always  restrained  by  the  supremacy  given  to  those  perma- 
nent solaces  for  the  mind,  in  the  beautiful  and  the  great, 
which  no  political  changes  disturb.  Although  the  death 
of  the  noble  master  of  the  venerated  mansion  closed  its 
portals  for  ever  on  the  exquisite  enjoyments  to  which  they 
had  been  so  generously  expanded,  the  art  of  conversation 
lived  a  little  longer  in  the  smaller  circle  which  Lady  Hol- 
land still  drew  almost  daily  around  her  ;  honoring  his  mem- 
ory by  following  his  example,  and  struggling  against  the 
perpetual  sense  of  unutterable  bereavement,  by  rendering 
to  literature  that  honor  and  those  reliefs,  which  English 
aristocracy  has  too  often  denied  it ;  and  seeking  consola- 
tion in  making  others  proud  and  happy.  That  lingering 
happiness  is  extinct  now  ;  Lamb's  kindred  circle — kindred, 
though  so  different — dispersed  almost  before  he  il.  A  ;  the 
"thoughts  that  wandered  thiough  eternity,"  arc  no  longer 
expressed  in  time  ;  the  fancies  and  conceits,  "  gay  crea- 
tures of  the  element"  of  social  delight,  "  that  in  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow  lived,  and  played  in  the  plighted  clouds," 
flicker  only  in  the  backward  perspective  of  waning  years ; 


QEORQE  DYER.  261 

and  for  the  survivors,  I  may  venture  to  affirm,  no  such 
conversation  as  they  have  shared  in  either  circle  will  ever 
be  theirs  again  in  this  Avorld  ! 

Before  closing  these  last  Memorials  of  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb,  it  may  be  permitted  me  to  glance  separately  at 
some  of  the  friends  who  are  grouped  around  them  in  mem- 
ory, and  who,  like  them,  live  only  in  recollection,  and  in 
the  works  they  have  left  behind  them. 

George  Dyer  was  one  of  the  first  objects  of  Lamb'g 
youthful  reverence,  for  he  had  attained  the  stately  rank 
of  Grecian  in  the  venerable  school  of  Christ's  Hospital, 
when  Charles  entered  it,  a  little,  timid,  affectionate  child ; 
but  this  boyish  respect,  once  amounting  to  awe,  gave  place 
to  a  familiar  habit  of  loving  banter,  which,  springing  from 
the  depth  of  old  regard,  approximated  to  school-boy 
roguery,  and,  now  and  then,  though  very  rarely,  gleamed 
on  the  consciousness  of  the  ripe  scholar.  No  contrast 
could  be  more  vivid  than  that  presented  by  the  relations 
of  each  to  the  literature  they  both  loved  ;  one  divining  its 
inmost  essences,  plucking  out  the  heart  of  its  mysteries, 
shedding  light  on  its  dimmest  recesses  ;  the  other  devoted, 
with  equal  assiduity,  to  its  externals.  Books,  to  Dyer, 
"  were  a  real  Avorld,  both  pure  and  good  ;  among  tlicni  lie 
passed,  unconscious  of  time,  from  youth  to  extreme  age, 
vegetating  on  their  dates  and  forms,  and  "  trivial  fond 
records,"  in  the  learned  air  of  great  librai-ics,  or  the 
dusty  confusion  of  his  own,  with  the  least  j)ossil)ie  ap- 
prehension of  any  human  interest  vital  in  their  pages, 
or  of  any  spiiit  (jf  wit  or  fancy  glancing  across  them.  J  lis 
life  was  an  Academic  pastoral.  Methinks  I  see  his  gaunt, 
awkward  form,  set  off  by  trousers  too  short,  like  thosr 
outgrown  by  a  gawKy  lad,  ami  a  rusty  coat  as  much  fno 


2b2  GEORGE   DYER. 

lai'ge  for  the  wearer,  hanging  about  him  like  those  gar- 
ments which  the  aristocratic  Milesian  peasantry  prefer  to 
the  most  comfortable  rustic  dress ;  his  long  head  silvered 
over  with  short  yet  straggling  hair,  and  his  dark  grey  eyes 
glistening  with  faith  and  wonder,  as  Lamb  satisfies  the  cu- 
riosity which  has  gently  disturbed  his  studies  as  to  the  au- 
thorship of  the  Waverley  Novels,  by  telling  him,  in  the 
strictest  confidence,  that  they  are  the  works  of  Lord  Cas- 
tlereagh,  just  returned  from  the  Congress  of  Sovereigns 
at  Vienna  !  Olf  he  runs,  with  animated  stride  and  shamb- 
ling enthusiasm,  nor  stops  till  he  reaches  Maida  Hill,  and 
breathes  his  news  into  the  startled  ear  of  Leigh  Hunt,  who 
"  as  a  public  writer,"  ought  to  be  possessed  of  the  great 
fact  with  which  George  is  laden  !  Or  shall  I  endeavor  to 
revive  the  bewildered  look  with  which,  just  after  he  had 
been  announced  as  one  of  Lord  Stanhope's  executors  and 
residuary  legatees,  he  received  Lamb's  grave  inquiry, 
"  Whether  it  was  true,  as  commonly  reported,  that  he  was 
to  be  made  a  Lord  ?"  "  0  dear  no  !  Mr.  Lamb,"  respond- 
ed he  with  earnest  seriousness,  but  not  Avithout  a  moment's 
quivering  vanity,  "  I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing ;  it 
is  not  true  I  assure  you."  "I  thought  not,"  said  Lamb, 
"  and  I  contradict  it  wherever  I  go  ;  but  the  government  will 
not  ask  your  consent ;  they  may  raise  you  to  the  peerage 
without  your  even  knowing  it."  "  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Lamb  ; 
indeed,  indeed,  I  hope  not ;  it  would  not  suit  me  at  all," 
responded  Dyer,  and  went  his  way,  musing  on  the  possi- 
bility of  a  strange  honor  descending  on  his  reluctant  brow. 
Or  shall  I  recall  the  visible  presentment  on  his  bland  un- 
consciousness of  evil  when  his  sportive  friend  taxed  it  to 
the  utmost,  by  suddenly  asking  what  he  thought  of  the 
murderer  Williams,  who,  after  destroying  two  families  in 
Ratcliffe  Highway,  had   broken   prison   by   suicide,  and 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  263 

whose  body  had  just  before  been  convoyed,  in  shocking 
procession,  to  its  cross-road  grave  !  The  desperate  at- 
tempt to  compel  the  gentle  optimist  to  speak  ill  of  a  mor- 
tal creature  produced  no  happier  success  than  the  answer, 
*'  AVhy,  I  should  think,  Mr.  Lamb,  he  must  have  been 
lather  an  eccentric  character."  This  simplicity  of  a  na- 
ture not  only  unspotted  by  the  world,  but  almost  abstracted 
from  it,  will  seem  the  more  remarkable,  when  it  is  known 
that  it  was  subjected  at  the  entrance  of  life,  to  a  hard  bat- 
tle with  fortune.  Dyer  was  the  son  of  very  poor  parents, 
residing  in  an  eastern  suburb  of  London,  Stepney  or  Bcth- 
nal-greenward,  where  he  attracted  the  attention  of  two  el- 
derly ladies  as  a  serious  child  "with  an  extraordinary  love 
for  books.  They  obtained  for  him  a  presentation  to 
Christ's  Hospital,  which  he  entered  at  seven  years  of  age  ; 
fought  his  way  through  its  sturdy  ranks  to  its  head  ;  and, 
at  nineteen,  quitted  it  for  Cambridge,  with  only  an  exhi- 
bition and  his  schi)hvrly  accomplishments  to  help  liini.  On 
he  went,  liowevcr,  pkicid,  if  not  rejoicing,  through  the  dif- 
ficulties of  a  life  ilhistrated  only  by  scholarship  ;  cncount- 
crin-T  tremendous  labors  ;  unresting  yet  serene;  until  at 
eirfhty-five  he  breathed  out  the  most  blanudess  of  lives, 
which  began  in  a  struggle  to  end  in  a  learned  drcara  ! 

Mr.  GODWIX,  who  during  the  h:ii)])iost  perioil  of  Lamb's 
weekly  parties,  was  a  constant  assistant  at  his  whist-iahle, 
rcscmljlcd  Dyer  in  siniplicity  of  manner  and  devotion  to 
letters  ;  but  the  simplicity  was  morn  supcrlicial,  and  llio 
devotion  more  profound  than  the  kindred  qualities  in  the 
guileless  scholar  ;  Jind  instead  of  forming  the  entire  being, 
onlv  marked  the  surface  of  a  nature  beneath  which  extra- 
ordinary power  l.iy  hidden.  As  the  absence  of  wordly 
wisdom  subjccte<l  Dyer  to  the  sportive  sallies  of  Lamb,  so 


264  WILLIAM    GODWIN. 

a  like  deficiency  in  Godwin  exposed  him  to  the  coar^jej 
mirth  of  Mr.  Ilorne  Tooke,  who  was  sometimes  inclined  to 
seek  relaxation  for  the  iron  muscles  of  his  imperturbable 
mind  in  trying  to  make  a  philosopher  look  foolish.  To  a 
stranger's  gaze  the  author  of  the  "Political  Justice"  and 
"  Caleb  Williams,"  as  he  appeared  in  the  Temple,  always 
an  object  of  curiosity  except  to  his  familiars,  presented 
none  of  those  characteristics  with  which  fancy  had  invested 
the  daring  speculator  and  relentless  novelist ;  nor,  when 
he  broke  silence,  did  his  language  tend  to  reconcile  the 
reality  with  the  expectation.  The  disproportion  of  a  frame 
which,  low  of  stature,  was  surmounted  by  a  massive  head 
which  might  befit  a  presentable  giant,  was  rendered  almost 
imperceptible,  not  by  any  vivacity  of  expression,  (for  hia 
countenance  was  rarely  lighted  up  by  the  deep-seated  ge- 
nius within,)  but  by  a  gracious  suavity  of  manner  Avhich 
many  "  a  fine  old  English  gentleman"  might  envy.  His 
voice  was  small ;  the  topics  of  his  ordinary  conversation 
trivial,  and  discussed  with  a  delicacy  and  precision  which 
might  almost  be  mistaken  for  finical ;  and  the  presence  of 
the  most  interesting  persons  in  literary  society,  of  which 
he  had  enjoyed  the  best,  would  not  prevent  him  from  fall- 
ing after  dinner  into  the  most  profound  sleep.  This  gen- 
tle, drow^sy,  spiritless  demeanor,  presents  a  striking  con- 
trast to  a  reputation  which  once  filled  Europe  with  its 
echoes  ;  but  it  was,  in  truth,  when  rightly  understood,  per- 
fectly consistent  with  those  intellectual  elements  which  in 
some  raised  the  most  enthusiastic  admiration,  and  from 
others  elicited  the  wildest  denunciations  of  visionary  ter- 
ror. 

In  Mr.  Godwin's  mind,  the  faculty  of  abstract  reason  so 
predominated  over  all  others,  as  practically  to  extinguish 
them  ;  and  his  taste,  akin   to  this  faculty,  sought  only  for 


■WILLIAM    GODAVIX.  205 

its  development  through  the  medium  of  composition  for 
the  press.  lie  had  no  imagination,  no  fancy,  no  wit, 
no  humor;  or  if  he  possessed  any  of  those  faculties, 
they  were  obscured  by  that  of  pure  reason ;  and  being 
wholl}^  devoid  of  the  quick  sensibility  which  irritates 
speech  into  eloquence,  and  of  the  passion  for  immediate 
excitement  and  applause,  which  tends  to  its  presentment 
before  admiring  assemblies,  he  desired  no  other  audience 
than  that  which  he  could  silently  address,  and  learned  to 
regard  all  things  through  a  contemplative  medium.  In 
this  sense,  far  more  than  in  the  extravagant  application  of 
his  wildest  theories,  he  levelled  all  around  him  ;  admitted 
no  greatness  but  that  of  literature  ;  and  neither  desired 
nor  revered  any  triumphs  but  those  of  thought.  If  such 
a  reasoning  faculty,  guided  by  such  a  disposition,  had 
been  applied  to  abstract  sciences,  no  effect  remarkable 
beyond  that  of  rare  excellence,  would  have  been  pro- 
duced ;  but  the  apparent  anomalies  of  Mr.  Godwin's  in- 
tellectual history  arose  from  the  application  of  his  power 
to  the  passions,  the  interests,  and  the  hopes  of  man- 
kind, at  a  time  when  they  enkindled  into  frightful  action, 
and  when  he  calmly  worked  out  his  problems  among  their 
burning  elements  with  the  "ice-brook's  temper,"  and  the 
severest  logic.  And  if  some  extreme  conclusions  were  in- 
consistent with  the  faith  and  the  duty  which  alone  can  sus- 
tain and  regulate  our  nature,  there  was  no  small  compen- 
sation in  the  severity  of  the  process  to  which  the  student 
was  impelled,  for  the  slender  peril  which  might  remain 
lest  the  results  should  be  practically  adopted.  A  system 
founded  on  pure  reason,  which  rejected  the  impulses  of 
natural  affection,  the  delights  of  gratitude,  the  influences 
of  prejudice,  the  bondage  of»  custom,  the  animation  of  per- 
sonal hope  ;  which  appealed  to  no  passion — which  suggcs- 

23  ^*^ 


266  WILLIAM    GODWIN. 

ted  no  luxury — wliicli  excited  no  animosities — and  Avhich 
offered  no  prize  for  the  observance  of  its  laws,  except  a 
participation  in  the  expanding  glories  of  progressive  hu- 
manity, was  little  calculated  to  allure  from  the  accustomed 
paths  of  ancient  ordinance  any  man  disposed  to  Avalk  in 
them  by  the  lights  from  heaven.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
was  a  healthful  diversion  from  those  seductions  in  which 
the  heart  secretly  enervates  and  infects  the  understanding, 
to  invite  the  revolutionary  speculator  to  the  contemplation  of 
the  distant  and  the  refined  ;  by  the  pursuit  of  impracticable 
error  to  brace  the  mind  for  the  achievement  of  everlasting 
truth;  and  on  the  "heat  and  flame  of  the  distemper"  of 
an  impassioned  democracy  to  "sprinkle  cool  patience." 
The  idol,  Political  Justice,  of  which  he  was  the  slow  and 
laborious  architect,  if  it  for  a  while  enchanted,  did  not  long 
enthral  or  ever  debase  its  worshippers ;  "  its  bones  were 
marroAvless,  its  blood  was  cold," — but  there  was  surely 
"  speculation  in  its  eyes"  which  "glared  withal"  into  the 
future.  Such  high  casuistry  as  it  evoked  has  alwnys  an 
ennobling  tendency,  even  when  it  dallies  Avith  error  ;  the 
direction  of  thought  in  youth  is  of  less  consequence  than 
the  mode  of  its  exercise  ;  and  it  is  only  when  the  base  in- 
terests and  sensual  passions  of  mortality  pander  to  the  un- 
derstanding that  truth  may  fear  for  the  issue. 

The  author  of  this  cold  and  passionless  intellectual 
phantasy  looked  out  upon  the  world  he  hoped  to  inform 
from  recesses  of  contemplation  which  the  outward  inci- 
dents of  life  did  not  disturb,  and  which,  when  closed,  left 
him  a  common  man,  appearing  to  superficial  observers 
rather  below  than  above  the  level  of  ordinary  talkers.  To 
his  inward  gaze  the  stupendous  changes  which  agitated  Eu- 
rope, at  the  time  he  wrote,  were  silent  as  a  picture.  The 
pleasure  of  his  life  was  to  think ;  its  business  was  to  write  ; 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  267 

all  else  in  it  was  vanity.  Regarding  his  o^Yn  being  through 
the  same  spiritualising  medium,  he  saw  no  reason  why  the 
springs  of  its  existence  should  wear  out,  and,  in  the  spring- 
time of  his  speculation,  held  that  man  might  become  immor- 
tal on  earth  by  the  eifort  of  the  will.  His  style  partook  of 
the  quality  of  his  intellect  and  the  character  of  its  pur- 
poses— it  was  pure,  simple,  colorless.  His  most  imagina- 
tive passages  are  inspired  only  by  a  logic  quickened  into 
enthusiasm  by  the  anticipation  of  the  approaching  discov- 
ery of  truth — the  dawning  Eureka  of  the  reasoner  ;  they 
are  usually  composed  of  "  line  upon  line  and  precept  upon 
precept,"  without  an  involution  of  style,  or  an  eddy  in  the 
thought.  He  sometimes  complained,  though  with  the  be- 
nignity that  always  marked  his  estimate  of  his  opponents, 
that  Mr.  Malthus's  style  was  too  richly  ornamented  for  ar- 
gument ;  and  certainly,  Avith  all  its  vivacity  of  illustration 
it  lacks  the  transparent  simplicity  of  his  OM-n.  The  most 
palpable  result  which  he  ever  produced  by  his  writings  was 
the  dark  theory  in  the  first. edition  of  the  work  on  Popula- 
tion, which  was  presented  as  an  answer  to  his  reasoning 
on  behalf  of  the  perfectibility  of  man  ;  and  he  used  to 
smile  at  his  ultimate  triumjih,  when  the  writer,  wlio  had 
only  intended  a  striking  paradox,  tamed  it  down  to  the 
wisdom  of  economy,  and  adapted  it  to  Poor-law  uses  ;  neu- 
tralised his  giant  spectres  of  Vice  and  Misery  by  the  prac- 
tical intervention  of  Moral  Restraint  ;  and  left  the  op- 
timist, Godwin,  still  in  unclouded  possession  of  the  hopo 
of  universal  peace  and  happiness,  postponed  only  to  tliac 
time  when  passion  shall  be  subjected  to  reason,  and  popu- 
lation, no  more  rising  like  a  resistless  tide,  between  ada 
mantine  barriers  to  sul)inerg<;  the  reiinvalc<l  earth,  shall 
obey  the  commands  of  wisdom  ;  rise  and  fall  as  the  means 
of  subsistence  expand  or  contract  ;  and  only  contribute  an 
impulse  to  the  universal  harmony. 


268  WILLIAM    GODWIN. 

The  persons  of  Mr.  Godwin's  romances — stranger  still 
< — are  the  naked  creations  of  the  same  intellectual  power, 
marvellously  endowed  with  galvanic  life.  Though  with 
happier  symmetry,  they  are  as  much  made  out  of  chains 
and  links  of  reasoning,  as  the  monster  Avas  fashioned  Ly 
the  chemistry  of  the  student,  in  the  celebrated  novel  of  his 
gifted  daughter.  Falkland  and  Caleb  Williams,  are  the 
mere  impersonations  of  the  unbounded  love  of  reputation, 
and  irresistible  curiosity  ;  these  ideas  are  developed  in 
each  with  masterly  iteration — to  the  two  ideas  all  causes 
give  way ;  and  materials  are  subjected,  often  of  remark- 
able coarseness,  to  the  refinement  of  the  conception. 
Hazlitt  used  to  observe  of  these  two  characters,  that  the 
manner  they  are  played  into  each  other,  was  equal  to  any- 
thing of  the  kind  in  the  drama ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  opposition,  though  at  the  cost  of  probability,  is  most 
powerfully  maintained ;  but  the  effect  is  partly  owing  to 
the  absence  of  all  extrinsic  interest  which  could  interfere 
with  the  main  purpose ;  the  beatings  of  the  heart  become 
audible,  not  only  from  their  own  intensity,  but  from  the 
desolation  Avhieh  the  author  has  expanded  around  them. 
The  consistency  in  each  is  that  of  an  idea,  not  of  a  char- 
acter ;  and  if  the  effect  of  form  and  color  is  produced,  it 
is,  as  in  line  engraving,  by  the  infinite  minuteness  and  deli- 
cacy of  the  single  strokes.  In  like  manner,  the  incidents 
by  which  the  author  seeks  to  exemplify  the  wrongs  inflicted 
by  power  on  goodness  in  civilized  society,  are  utterly  fan- 
tastical ;  nothing  can  be  more  minute,  nothing  more  unreal ; 
the  youth  being  involved  by  a  web  of  circumstances  woven 
to  immesh  him,  Avhich  the  condition  of  society  that  the  author 
intends  to  repudiate,  renders  impossible  ;  and  which  if 
true  would  prove,  not  that  the  framework  of  law  is  tyran- 
nous, but  that  the  Avill  of  a  single  oppressor  may  r;lude  it 


WILLIAM    GODWIN.  289 

The  subject  of  "St.  Leon"  is  more  congenial  to  the  au- 
thor's power  ;  but  it  is,  in  like  manner,  a  logical  develop- 
ment of  the  consequences  of  a  being  prolonged  on  earth 
through  ages  ;  and,  as  the  dismal  vista  expands,  the  skele- 
ton speculators  crowd  in  to  mock  and  sadden  us  ! 

Mr.  Godwin  was  thus  a  man  of  two  beings,  which  held 
little  discourse  with  each  other — the  daring  inventor  of 
theories  constructed  of  air-drawn  diagrams — and  the  sim- 
ple gentleman,  who  suffered  nothing  to  disturb  or  excite 
him,  beyond  his  study.  He  loved  to  walk  in  the  crowded 
streets  of  London,  not  like  Lamb,  enjoying  the  infinite  va- 
rieties of  many-colored  life  around  him,  but  because  he 
felt,  amidst  the  noise,  and  crowd,  and  glare,  more  intensely 
the  imperturbable  stillness  of  his  own  contemplations.  His 
means  of  comfortable  support  were  mainly  supplied  by  a 
shop  in  Skinner-street,  Avhere,  under  the  auspices  of  "  M. 
J.  Godwin  &  Co.,"  the  prettiest  and  Avisest  books  for  chil- 
dren issucil,  which  old-fashioned  parents  presented  to  their 
children,  without  suspecting  that  the  graceful  lessons  of 
piety  and  goodness  which  charmed  away  the  selfishness  of 
infancy,  were  published,  and  sometimes  revised,  and  now 
and  then  Avritten,  by  a  philosopher  whom  they  would 
scarcely  venture  to  name  !  He  met  the  exigencies  which 
the  vicissitudes  of  business  sometimes  caused,  Avith  tlio 
trusting  simplicity  which  marked  his  course — he  asked  his 
friends  for  aid  without  scruple,  considering  tliat  their 
means  were  justly  the  due  of  one  who  toiled  in  thought  for 
their  inward  life,  and  had  little  time  to  provide  for  Ids  own 
outward  existence  ;  and  took  their  excuses, -when  ofTered, 
without  doubt  or  offence.  The  very  next  day  after  I  had 
been  honored  and  delighted  by  an  introduction  to  liim  at 
Lamb's  chambers,  I  was  made  still  more  proud  and  happy 
by  his  appearance  ot  my  own  on  such  an  errand — which 
93* 


270  JOHN    THELAVALL. 

my  poverty,  not  my  Avill  rendered  abortive.     After   some 
pleasant  chat  on  indifferent  matters,  lie  carelessly  observed, 
that  he  had  a  little  bill  for  150/.  falling  due  on  the   mor- 
row, which  he   had  forgotten   till  that  morning,  and   de- 
sired tlie  loan  of  the  necessary  amount  for  a  few  weeks. 
At  first,  in   eager  hope  of  being  able  thus   to  oblige  one 
whom  I  regarded  with  admiration  akin  to  awe,  I- began  to 
consider  Avhether  it  was  possible  for  me  to  raise  such  a 
sum  ;  but,  alas  !  a  moment's  reflection  sufficed  to  convince 
me  that  the  hope  was  vain,  and  I  was  obliged,  with  much  con- 
fusion, to  assure  my  distinguished  visitor  how  glad  I  should 
have  been  to  serve  him,  but  that  I  was  only  just  starting 
as  a  special  pleader,  was  obliged  to  write  for  magazines 
to  help  me  on,  and  had   not    such  a   sum   in  the  world. 
"Oh  dear,"  said  the  philosopher,  "I  thought  you  were 
a  young  gentleman  of  fortune — don't  mention  it — don't 
mention  it;  I  shall  do  A'ery  well  elsewhere:" — and  then, 
in  the  most  gracious  manner,  reverted  to  our  former  topics ; 
and  sat  in  my  small  room  for  half  an  hour,  as  if  to  con- 
vince me  that  my  want  of  fortune  made  no  difference  in 
his  esteem.     A  slender  tribute  to  the  literature  he  had 
loved  and  served  so  well,  was  accorded  to  him  in  the  old 
age  to  vfhich  he  attained,  by  the  gift  of  a  sinecure  in  the 
Exchequer,  of  about  2001.  a  year,   connected  with  the 
custody  of  the  Records ;  and  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  he 
was  heaving  an  immense  key  to  vmlock  the  musty  trea- 
sures of  which  he  was  guardian — how  unlike  those  he  had 
unlocked,  with  finer  talisman,  for  the  astonishment  and 
alarm  of  one  generation,  and  the  delight  of  all  others  ! 

John  Thelwall,  Avho  had  once  exulted  in  the  appel- 
lation of  Citizen  Thelwall,  having  been  associated  with 
Coleridge  and  Southey  in  their  days  of  enthusiastical 
dreaming,  though  a  more  precise  and  practical  reforraei 


JOHN    THELWALL.  271 

than  either,  was  introduced  by  them  to  Lamb,  and  wcl- 
cnmed  to  liis  circle,  in  the  true  Catholicism  of  it?  spirit, 
althouo-h  its  master  cared  nothing  for  the  Roman  virtue 
which  Thelvvall  devotedly  cherished,  and  which  Ilorne 
Tooke  kept  in  uncertain  vibration  between  a  rebellion  and 
a  hoax.  Lamb  justly  esteemed  Thelwall  as  a  thoroughly 
honest  man  ;  not  lionest  merely  in  reference  to  the  moral 
relations  of  life,  but  to  the  processes  of  thought ;  one 
whose  mind,  acute,  vigorous,  and  direct,  perceived  only 
the  object  immediately  before  it,  and  undisturbed  by  col- 
lateral circumstances,  reflected,  Avith  literal  fidelity,  the 
impression  it  received,  and  maintained  it  as  sturdily 
against  the  beauty  that  might  soften  it,  or  the  wisdom  that 
might  mould  it,  as  against  the  tyranny  that  would  stifle 
its  expression.  "  If  to  be  honest  as  the  world  goes,  is  to 
be  one  man  picked  out  of  ten  thousand,"  to  be  honest  as 
the  mind  works  is  to  be  one  man  of  a  million ;  and  such  a 
man  was  ThelwalL  Starting  Avith  imperfect  education 
froui  the  thraldom  of  domestic  oppression,  with  slender 
knowledge  but  with  fiery  zeal,  into  the  dnngers  of  political 
enterprise,  and  treading  fearlessly  on  the  verge  of  sedi- 
tion, lie  saw  nothing  before  him  but  powers  which  he  as- 
sumed to  be  despotism  and  vice,  and  rushed  headlong  to 
crush  them.  The  point  of  time — just  that  when  the 
accumulated  force  of  public  opinion  had  obtained  a  virtual 
mastery  over  the  accumulated  corruptions  of  ages,  but 
when  power,  still  unconvinced  of  its  danger,  presented  its 
boldest  front  to  opposing  intellect,  or  strove  to  crush  it 
in  the  cruelty  of  awaking  fear — gave  scope  for  the  anient 
temperament  of  an  orator  almost  as  poor  in  scholastic  cul- 
tivation as  in  external  fortune;  but  strong  in  integrity, 
and  rich  in  burning  words. 

Thus  passionate,  Thelwall  spoke  boldly  and  vehemently 


272  JOHN  THELWALL. 

— at  a  time  when  indignation  was  thought  to  be  a  virtue; 
but  there  is  no  reason  to  beheve  he  ever  meditated  any  trea- 
son except  that  accumulated  in  the  arcliitectural  sophistry 
of  Lord  Ehlon,  by  Avhich  he  proved  a  person  wlio  desired  to 
awe  the  Government  into  a  change  of  policy  to  be  guilty  of 
compassing  the  king's  death,  as  thus  that  the  king  must  re- 
sist the  proposed  alteration  in  his  measures — that  resisting 
he  must  be  deposed — and  that  being  deposed,  he  must  ne- 
cessarily die  ;  though  his  boldness  of  speech  placed  him  in 
jeopardy  even  after  the  acquittals  of  his  simple-minded  asso- 
ciate Hardy,  and  his  enigmatical  instructor  Tooke,  who  for- 
sook him,  and  left  him,  when  acquitted,  to  the  mercy  of  the 
world.  His  life,  which  before  this  event  had  been  one  of 
self-denial  and  purity  remarkable  in  a  young  man  who  had 
imbibed  the  impulses  of  revolutionary  France,  partook  of 
considerable  vicissitudes.  At  one  time,  he  was  raised  by 
his  skill  in  correcting  impediments  of  speech,  and  teaching 
elocution  as  a  science,  into  elegant  competence — at  other 
times  saddened  by  the  difficulties  of  poorly  requited  lite- 
rary toil  and  wholly  unrequited  patriotism ;  but  he  pre- 
served his  integrity  and  his  cheerfulness — "  a  man  of  hope 
and  forward-looking  mind  even  to  the  last."  Unlike  God- 
Avin,  whose  profound  thoughts  slowly  struggled  into  form, 
and  seldom  found  utterance  in  conversation — speech  was, 
in  him,  all  in  all,  his  delight,  his  profession,  his  triumph, 
with  little  else  than  passion  to  inspire  or  color  it.  The 
flaming  orations  of  his  "  Tribune,"  rendered  more  piquant 
by  the  transparent  masquerade  of  ancient  history,  which, 
in  his  youth,  "  touched  monied  worldlings  with  dismay," 
and  infected  the  poor  with  dangerous  anger,  seemed  vapid, 
spiritless,  and  shallow  when  addressed  through  the  press 
to  the  leisure  of  the  thoughtful.  The  light  which  glowed 
with  so  formidable  a  lustie  before  the  evening  audience, 


JOHN    TIIELWALL.  273 

vanislied  on  closer  examination,  and  proved  to  be  only  a 
iiarmless  pliantoni-vapor  which  left  no  traces  of  destruc- 
tive energy  behind  it. 

Thehvall,  in  person  small,  compact,  muscular — with  a 
head  denoting  indomitable  resolution,  and  features  deeply 
furrowed  by  the  ardent  workings  of  the  mind — was  as 
energetic  in  all  his  pursuits  and  enjoyments  as  in  political 
action.  He  was  earnestly  devoted  to  the  drama,  and 
enjoyed  its  greatest  representations  wdth  the  freshness  of 
a  boy  wdio  sees  a  play  for  the  first  time.  He  hailed  the 
kindred  energy  of  Kean  with  enthusiastic  praise  ;  but  ab- 
juring the  narrowness  of  his  political  vision  in  matters  of 
taste,  didjustice  to  the  nobler  qualities  of  Mrs.  Siddons  and 
her  brothers.  In  literature  and  art  also,  he  relaxed  the 
bigotry  of  his  liberal  intolerance,  and  expatiated  in  their 
wider  fields  wdth  a  taste  more  catholic.  Here  Lamb  was 
ready  with  his  sympathy,  which  indeed  even  the  political 
zeal,  that  he  did  not  share,  Avas  too  hearted  to  repel. 
Although  generally  detesting  lectures  on  literature  as 
superficial  and  vapid  substitutes  for  quiet  reading,  and  re- 
citations as  unreal  mockeries  of  the  true  Drama,  he  some- 
times attended  the  entertainments,  composed  cf  both, 
which  Thehvall,  in  the  palmy  days  of  his  prosperity,  gave 
at  his  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  not  on  politics,  wdiicli 
he  had  then  forsaken  for  elocutionary  science,  though 
maintaining  the  principles  of  his  youth,  but  partly  on 
elocution,  and  partly  on  poetry  and  acting,  into  w^hich  he 
infused  the  fiery  enthusiasm  of  his  nature.  Sometimes  in- 
deed, his  fervor  animated  his  disquisitions  on  the  philoso- 
phy of  speech  with  greater  warmth  than  he  reserved  for 
more  attractive  themes ;  the  melted  vowels  were  blended 
into  a  rainbow,  or  dispersed  like  fleecy  clouils ;  and  the 
theory  of  language  was  made  interesting  by  the  honesty 


274  WILLIAM    HAZLITT. 

and  viVor  of  the  speaker.  Like  all  men  who  have  been 
cIucm'Iv  self-taught,  he  sometimes  presented  common-places 
as  original  discoveries,  with  an  air  -which  strangers  mis- 
took for  quackery  ;  but  they  "were  unjust ;  to  the  speaker 
these  "were  the  product  of  his  o^u-n  meditation,  though 
familiar  to  many,  and  not  rarely  possessed  the  charm  of 
originality  in  their  freshness.  Lamb,  at  least,  felt  that  it 
was  good,  among  other  companions  of  richer  and  more  com- 
prehensive intelligence,  to  have  one  friend  who  was  undis- 
turbed by  misgiving  either  for  himself  or  his  cause ;  who 
enunciated  wild  paradox  and  worn-out  common-place  with 
e([ual  confidence ;  and  who  was  ready  to  sacrifice  ease, 
fortune,  fame — everything  but  speech,  and,  if  it  had  been 
possible,  even  that — to  the  cause  of  truth  or  friendship.  • 
William  Hazlitt  was,  for  many  years,  one  of  the 
brightest  and  most  constant  ornaments  of  Lamb's  parties  ; 
linked  to  him  in  the  firm  bond  of  intellectual  friendship — 
which  remained  unskaken  in  spite  of  some  superficial  dif- 
ferences, "short  and  far  between,"  arising  from  Lamb's 
insensibility  to  Hazlitt's  political  animosities  and  his  ad- 
herence to  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  who 
shared  them.  ILizlitt  in  his  boyhood  had  derived  from 
his  father  that  attachment  to  abstract  truth  for  its  own 
sake,  and  that  inflexible  determination  to  cherish  it,  which 
naturally  predominated  in  the  being  of  the  minister  of  a 
small  rural  congregation,  who  cherished  religious  opinions 
adverse  to  those  of  the  great  body  of  his  countrymen,  and 
waged  a  spiritual  warfare  throughout  his  peaceful  course. 
Thus  disciplined,  he  was  introduced  to  the  friendship  of 
youthful  poets,  in  whom  the  dawn  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution had  enkindled  hope,  and  passion,  and  opinions  tinc- 
tured Avith  hope  and  passion,  which  he  eagerly  embraced ; 
and  when  changes  passed  over  the  prospects  of  mankind, 


"WILLIAM    IIAZLITT.  275 

which  induced  them,  in  maturer  years,  to  modify  the  doc- 
trines they  had  taught,  he  resented  these  defections 
almost  as  personal  wrongs,  and,  "when  his  pen  found  scope, 
and  his  tongue  utterance,  Avrote  and  spoke  of  them  Aviih 
such  bitterness  as  can  only  spring  from  the  depths  of  old 
affection.  No  writer,  however,  except  Wilson,  did  such 
noble  justice  to  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth,  when  most 
despised,  and  to  the  genius  of  Coleridge,  when  most 
obscured  ;  he  cherished  a  true  admiration  for  each  in  "  the 
last  recesses  of  the  mind,"  and  defended  them  with  dog- 
ged resolution  against  the  scorns  and  slights  of  the  woidd. 
Still  the  superficial  difference  was,  or  seemed,  too  wide  to 
admit  of  personal  intercourse  ;  and  I  do  not  think  that 
during  the  many  years  which  elapsed  between  my  intro- 
duction to  Lamb  and  Hazlitt's  death,  he  ever  met  either 
of  the  poets  at  the  rooms  of  the  man  they  united  in  loving. 
Although  Mr.  Ilazlitt  was  thus  staunch  in  his  attach- 
n.ent  to  principles  which  he  reverenced  as  true,  he  was  by 
no  means  rigid  in  his  mode  of  maintaining  and  illustrat- 
ing them  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  frequently  diminished 
the  immediate  effect  of  his  reasonings  by  the  prodigality 
and  richness  of  the  allusions  with  which  he  embossed 
them.  He  had  as  unquenchable  a  desire  for  truth  as 
others  have  for  wealth,  or  power,  or  fame ;  he  pursued  it 
with  sturdy  singleness  of  purpose,  and  enunciated  it 
without  favor  or  fear.  But,  besides  that  love  of  truth, 
that  sincerity  in  pursuing  it,  and  that  boldness  in  telling 
it,  ne  had  also  a  fervent  aspiration  after  the  beautiful ;  a 
vivid  sense  of  pleasure,  and  an  intense  consciousness  of 
his  own  individual  being,  which  sometimes  produced  ob- 
stacles to  the  current  of  speculation,  by  which  it  was 
broken  into  dazzling  eddies  or  urged  into  devious  wind- 
ings.    Acute,  fervid,  vigorous,  as  his  mind  was,  it  wanted 


276  WILLIAM    HAZLITT, 

the  one  great  central  power  of  Imagination,  "which  bringg 
all  the  other  faculties  into  harmonious  action ;  multiplies 
them  into  each  other ;  makes  truth  visible  in  the  forms  of 
beauty,  and  substitutes  intellectual  vision  for  proof.  Thus, 
in  him,  truth  and  beauty  held  divided  empire.  In  him, 
the  spirit  was  willing,  but  the  flesh  was  strong  ;  and,  Avhen 
these  contend,  it  is  not  difiicult  to  anticipate  the  result ; 
"  for  the  power  of  beauty  shall  sooner  transform  honesty 
from  what  it  is  into  a  bawd,  than  the  person  of  honesty 
shall  transform  beauty  into  its  likeness."  This  "  some- 
time paradox"  was  vividly  exemplified  in  Hazlitt's  perso- 
nal history,  his  conversation,  and  his  writings.  To  the 
solitudes  of  the  country  in  which  he  mused  on  "  fate,  free- 
will, foreknowledge  absolute,  a  temperament  of  unusual 
ardor  had  given  an  intense  interest,  akin  to  that  with 
which  Rousseau  has  animated  and  oppressed  the  details  of 
his  early  years. 

lie  had  not  then,  nor  did  he  find  till  long  afterwards, 
power  to  embody  his  meditations  and  feelings  in  words. 
The  consciousness  of  thoughts  which  he  could  not  hope 
adequately  to  express,  increased  his  natural  reserve,  and 
he  turned  for  relief  to  the  art  of  painting,  in  which  he 
might  silently  realize  his  dreams  of  beauty,  and  repay  the 
loveliness  of  nature  by  fixing  some  of  its  fleeting  aspects 
in  immortal  tints.  A  few  old  prints  from  the  old  masters 
awakened  the  spirit  of  emulation  within  him  ;  the  sense 
of  beauty  became  identified  in  his  mind  with  that  of  glory 
and  duration ;  while  the  peaceful  labor  he  enjoyed  calmed 
tlie  tumult  in  his  veins,  and  gave  steadiness  to  his  pure 
and  distant  aim.  He  pursued  the  art  with  an  earnestness 
and  patience  which  he  vividly  describes  in  his  essay,  "  On 
the  Pleasure  of  Painting;"  and  to  which  he  frequently  re- 
verted in  the  happiest  moods  of  his  conversation  ;  and. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  277 

although  in  this,  his  chosen  pursuit,  he  failed,  the  passion- 
ate desire  for  success,  and  the  long  struggle  to  attain  it, 
left  deep  traces  in  liis  mind,  heightening  his  keen  percep- 
tion of  external  things,  and  mingling  with  all  his  specula- 
tions, airj  shapes  and  hues  which  he  had  vainly  striven 
to  transfer  to  canvas.  A  painter  may  acquire  a  fine  in- 
sight into  the  nice  distinctions  of  character — he  may  copy 
manners  in  words  as  he  does  in  colors — but  it  may  be 
apprehended  that  his  course  as  a  severe  reasoner  will  be 
somewhat  "troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies."  And  if 
the  successful  pursuit  of  art  may  thus  disturb  the  process 
of  abstract  contemplation,  how  much  more  may  an  un- 
satisfied ambition  rufile  it :  bid  the  dark  threads  of  thousrht 
glitter  with  radiant  fancies  unrealized,  and  clothe  the  dia- 
grams of  speculation  with  the  fragments  of  picture  which 
the  mind  cherishes  the  more  fondly,  because  the  hand  re- 
fused to  realize  ?  What  wonder,  if,  in  the  mind  of  an 
ardent  youth,  thus  struggling  in  vain  to  give  palpable  ex- 
istence to  the  shapes  of  loveliness  which  haunted  him, 
"the  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause"  should  assume 
the  fascinations  not  properly  its  own  ? 

This  association  of  beauty  with  reason  diminished  the 
immediate  effect  of  Mr.  Hazlitt's  political  essays,  while  it 
enhanced  their  permanent  value.  It  Avas  the  fashion,  in 
his  lifetime,  to  denounce  him  as  a  sour  Jacobin ;  but  no 
description  could  be  more  unjust.  Under  the  influence  of 
some  bitter  feeling,  or  some  wayward  fancy,  he  occasion- 
ally poured  out  a  furious  invective  against  tliose  whom  he 
regarded  as  the  enemies  of  liberty,  or  as  apostates  from 
her  cause ;  but,  in  general,  the  force  of  his  expostulation, 
or  his  reasoning,  was  diverted  (unconsciously  to  himself) 
by  figures  and  phantasies,  by  fine  and  quauit  allusions,  by 
(juotations  from  his  favorite  authors,  introduced  with  siiv 

24 


278  \VIL1IAM    IIAZLITT. 

rrular  felicity,  as  respects  the  direct  link  of  association, 
but  tending,  by  their  very  beauty,  to  unnerve  the  mind  of 
the  reader,  and  substitute  the  sense  of  luxury  for  clear 
conviction,  or  noble  anger.  In  some  of  his  essays,  where 
the  reasoning  is  most  cogent,  every  other  sentence  con- 
tains some  exquisite  passage  from  Shakspeare,  or  Fletcher, 
or  Wordsworth,  trniling  after  it  a  line  of  golden  associa- 
tions ;  or  some  reference  i-o  a  novel,  over  which  we  have 
a  thousand  times  forgotten  the  wrongs  of  mankind ;  till, 
in  the  recurring  shocks  of  pleasurable  surprise,  the  main 
argument  is  forgotten.  When,  for  example,  he  compares 
the  position  of  certain  political  waverers  to  that  of  Cla- 
rissa Harlowe  confronting  the  ravisher  who  would  repeat 
his  outrage,  with  the  penknife  pointed  to  her  breast,  and 
her  eyes  uplifted  to  Heaven,  and  describes  them  as  having 
been,  like  her,  trepanned  into  a  house  of  ill-fame,  near 
Pall  j\Iall,  and  there  defending  their  soiled  virtue  with 
their  penknives ;  what  reader,  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
stupendous  scene  which  the  allusion  directly  revives,  can 
think  or  care  about  the  renegade  of  yesterday?  Here, 
again,  is  felt  the  want  of  that  Imagination  Avhich  brings 
all  things  into  one,  tinges  all  our  thoughts  and  sympathies 
with  one  hue,  and  rejects  every  ornament  which  does  not 
heighten  or  prolong  the  feeling  which  it  seeks  to  embody. 
Even  when  he  retaliates  on  Southey  for  attacking  his 
old  co-patriots,  the  poetical  associations  which  bitter  re- 
membrance suggests,  almost  neutralize  the  vituperation ; 
he  brings  every  "  flower  which  sad  embroidery  wears  to 
strew  the  laureate  hoarse,"  wliere  ancient  regards  are  in- 
terred ;  and  niei'ges  all  the  censure  of  the  changed  politi- 
cian in  praise  of  the  simple  dignity  and  the  generous  la- 
bors of  a  singularly  noble  and  unsullied  life.  So  little 
docs  he  regard  the  unity  of  sentiment  in  his  compositions, 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  279 

that  in  his  "Letter  to  Gifford,"  after  a  series  of  just  and 
bitter  retorts  on  his  malio-ner  as  "•  the  fine  link  "which  con- 
nects  literature  with  the  police,"  he  takes  a  fancy  to  teach 
that  "  ultra-crepidarian  critic"  his  own  theory  of  the 
natural  disinterestedness  of  the  human  mind,  and  develops 
it,  not  in  the  dry,  hard,  mathematical  style  in  Avhich  it 
was  first  enunciated,  but  "o'er  informed"  with  the  glow 
of  sentiment,  and  terminating  in  an  eloquent  rhapsody. 
This  latter  portion  of  the  letter  is  one  of  the  noblest  of 
his  effusions,  but  it  entirely  destroys  the  first  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader ;  for  who,  when  thus  contemplating  the  liv- 
ing wheels  on  which  human  benevolence  is  borne  onwards 
in  its  triumphant  career,  and  the  spirit  with  which  they 
are  instinct,  can  think  of  the  literary  wasp  which  had 
settled  for  a  moment  upon  them,  and  who  had  just  before 
been  mercilessly  transfixed  with  minikin  arrows  ? 

But  the  most  signal  example  of  the  influences  which 
"the  show  of  things"  exercised  over  Mr.  Hazlitt's  mind 
was  the  setting  up  the  Emperor  Napoleon  as  his  idol.  He 
strove  to  justify  this  predilection  to  himself  by  referring 
it  to  the  revolutionary  origin  of  his  hero,  and  the  con- 
tempt Avith  which  he  trampled  upon  the  claims  of  legiti- 
macy, and  humbled  the  pride  of  kings.  But  if  his  "  only 
love"  thus  sprung  "from  his  only  hate,"  it  was  not  cher 
ished  in  its  blossom  by  antipathies.  If  there  had  been 
nothing  in  his  mind  whicli  tended  to  a,L\grandizcmcnt  and 
o-lory,  and  which  would  fain  reconcile  the  principles  of 
freedom  with  the  lavish  accumulation  of  power,  he  might 
have  desired  the  triumph  of  young  tyranny  over  legiti- 
mate thrones;  but  lie  would  scarcely  have  watched  ita 
progress  and  its  fall  "like  a  lover  and  a  child."  His  feel- 
ing for  Bonaparte  in  exile  was  not  a  sentiment  of  respect 
for  fallen  greatness ;  not  a  desire  to  trace  "  the  soul  of 


280  WILLIAM    IIAZLITT. 

goodness  in  tilings  evil ;"  not  a  loathing  of  the  treatment 
the  Emperor  received  from  "  his  cousin  kings"  in  the  day 
of  adversity ;  but  entire  affection  mingling  with  the  cur- 
rent of  the  blood,  and  pervading  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual being.     Nothing  less  than  this  strong  attachment,  at 
once  personal  and  refined,  would  have  enabled  him  to  en- 
counter the  toil  of  collecting  and  arranging  facts  and  dates 
for  four  volumes  of  narrative,  which  constitute  his  "  Life 
of  Napoleon;" — a  drudgery  too  abhorrent  to  his  habits 
of  mind  as  a  thinker,  to  be  sustained  by  any  stimulus 
which  the  prospect  of  remuneration  or   the   hope  of  ap- 
plause could  supply.     It  is  not  so  much  in  the  ingenious 
excuses  Avhicli  he  discovers  for  the  worst  acts  of  his  hero — 
offered  even   for   the    midnight  execution   of    the    Duke 
d'Enghien  and  the  invasion  of  Spain — that  the  stamp  of 
personal  devotion  is  obvious,  as  in  the  graphic  force  with 
which  he  has  delineated  the  short-lived  splendors  of  the 
Imperial   Court,  and   "the  trivial  fond  records"   he  has 
gathered  of  every  vestige  of  human  feeling  by  which  he 
could   reconcile   the    Imperial    Cynic   to   the   species  he 
scorned.     The  first  two  volumes  of  his  work,  although  re- 
deemed  by   scattered   thoughts   of    true  originality  and 
depth,  are  often  confused  and  spiritless  ;  the  characters  of 
the  principal  revolutionists  are  drawn  too  much  in  the 
style  of  awkward,  sprawling  caricatures  ;  but  when  the 
hero  casts  all  his  rivals  yito  the  distance,  erects  himself 
the  individual  enemy  of  England,  consecrates  his  power 
by  religious  ceremonies,  and  defines  it  by  the  circle  of  a 
crown,  the  author's  strength  becomes  concentrated  ;  his 
narrative  assumes  an  epic  dignity  and  fervor ;  dallies  with 
the  flowers  of  usurped  prerogative,  and  glows  with  "  the 
long-resounding  march  and  energy  divine."     How  happy 
and  proud  is  he  to  picture  the  meeting  of  the   Emperor 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT.  281 

mth.  the  Pope,  and  the  grandeurs  of  the  coronation  !  How 
he  grows  wanton  in  celebrating  the  fetes  of  the  Tuihn-ies, 
as  "  presenting  all  the  elegance  of  enchanted  pageants," 
and  laments  them  as  "gone  like  a  fairy  revel!"  How  he 
"lives  along  the  line"  of  Austerlitz,  and  rejoices  in  its 
thunder,  and  hails  its  setting  sun,  and  exults  in  the  minu- 
test details  of  the  subsequent  meeting  of  the  conquered 
sovereigns  at  the  feet  of  the  conqueror  !  How  he  expati- 
ates on  the  fatal  marriage  with  "the  deadly  Austrian," 
(as  Air.  Cobbett  justly  called  Maria  Louisa),  as  though  it 
were  a  chapter  in  romance,  and  sheds  the  grace  of  beauty 
on  the  imperial  picture  !  How  he  kindles  with  material 
ardor  as  he  describes  the  preparations  against  Russia; 
musters  the  myriads  of  barbarians  with  a  show  of  dra- 
matic justice ;  and  fondly  lingers  among  the  brief  tri- 
umphs of  Moskwa  on  the  verge  of  the  terrible  catastro- 
phe !  The  narrative  of  that  disastrous  expedition  is,  in- 
deed, written  with  a  master's  hand ;  we  see  the  "  grand 
army"  marching  to  its  destruction  through  the  immense 
perspective :  the  wild  hordes  flying  before  the  terror  of  its 
"coming;"  the  barbaric  magnificence  of  Moscow  tower- 
ing in  the  remote  distance ;  and  when  we  gaze  upon  the 
sacrificial  conflagration  of  the  Kremlin,  we  feel  that  it  is 
Avorthy  to  become  the  funeral  pile  of  the  conqueror's  glo- 
ries. It  is  well  for  the  readers  of  this  splendid  work,  that 
there  is  more  in  it  of  the  painter  than  of  the  metaphvsi- 
cian :  that  its  style  glows  with  the  fervor  of  battle,  or 
stifl'ens  with  the  spoils  of  victory ;  yet  we  wonder  that  this 
monument  to  imperial  grandeur  should  be  raised  from  the 
dead  level  of  jacobinism  by  an  honest  and  profound  thinker. 
The  solution  is,  that  although  he  was  this,  he  was  also 
more — that,  in  opinion,  he  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the 
people  ;  but  that,  in  feeling,  he  required  some  individual 
2-1  » 


282  WILLIAM    IIAZLITT. 

object  of  worship  ;  that  he  selected  Napoleon  as  one  in 
whose  origin  and  career  he  might  at  once  impersonate  his 
principles  and  gratify  his  affections  ;  and  that  he  adhered 
to  his  own  idea  with  heroic  obstinacy,  when  the  "  child 
and  champion  of  the  Republic"  openly  sought  to  repress 
all  feeling  and  thought,  but  such  as  he  could  cast  in  his 
own  iron  moulds,  and  scoffed  at  popular  enthusiasm  even 
while  it  bore  him  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  loftiest  de- 
sires. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  had  little  inclination  to  talk  or  write  about 
contemporary  authors,  and  still  less  to  read  them.  Ho 
was  Avith  difficulty  persuaded  to  look  into  the  Scotch 
novels,  but  Avhen  he  did  so,  he  found  them  old  in  substance 
though  new  in  form,  read  them  with  as  much  avidity  as 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  expressed  better  than  any  one 
else  Vtdiat  all  the  world  felt  about  them.  Ilis  hearty  love 
of  them,  however,  did  not  diminish,  but  aggravate  his  dis- 
like of  the  political  opinions  so  zealously  and  consistently 
maintained,  of  their  great  author ;  and  yet  the  strength 
of  his  hatred  towards  that  which  was  accidental  and  tran- 
sitory only  set  off  the  unabated  power  of  his  regard  for 
the  great  and  the  lasting.  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
were  not  nnjdcrns  to  him,  for  they  Avere  the  inspirers  of 
his  youth,  which  was  his  own  antiquity,  and  the  feelings 
which  were  the  germ  of  their  poetry  had  sunk  deep  into 
his  heart.  With  the  exception  of  the  works  of  these,  and 
of  his  friends  Barry  Cornwall  and  Sheridan  Knowles,  in 
wiiosc  successes  he  rejoiced,  he  held  modern  literature  in 
slight  esteem,  and  regarded  the  discoveries  of  science  and 
the  visions  of  optimism  with  an  undnzzled  eye.  His 
"  large  discourse  of  reason"  looked  not  before,  but  after. 
He  felt  it  a  sacred  duty,  as  a  lover  of  genius  and  art,  to 
defend  the  fame  of  the  mighty  dead.     When  the  old  pain 


WILLIAM    IIAZLITT.  283 

ters  were  assailed  in  "The  Catalogue  Raisonne  of  the 
British  Institution,"  he  was  "touched  with  noble  anger." 
All  his  own  vain  longings  after  the  immortality  of  the 
works  which  were  libelled — all  the  tran([uilllty  and  beauty 
they  had  shed  into  his  soul — all  his  comprehension  of  tlie 
sympathy  and  delight  of  thousands,  which,  accumulating 
through  long  time,  had  attested  their  worth — were  fused 
together  to  dazzle  and  subdue  the  daring  critic  who  would 
disturb  the  judgment  of  ages.  So,  when  a  popular  poet 
assailed  the  fame  of  Rousseau,  seeking  to  reverse  the  de- 
cision of  posterity  on  what  that  great  though  unhappy 
writer  had  achieved  by  suggesting  the  opinion  of  people 
of  condition  in  his  neighborhood  on  the  figure  he  made  to 
their  apprehensions  while  in  the  service  of  Madame  de 
Warrens,  he  vindicated  the  prerogatives  of  genius  with 
the  true  logic  of  passion.  Few  things  irritated  him  more 
than  the  claims  set  up  for  the  present  generation  to  be 
wiser  and  better  than  those  which  have  gone  before  it. 
He  had  no  power  of  imagination  to  embrace  the  golden 
clouds  which  hung  over  the  Future,  but  he  rested  and  ex- 
patiated in  the  Past.  To  his  apprehension  human  good 
did  not  appear  a  slender  shoot  of  yesterday,  like  the  bean- 
stalk in  the  fairy  tale,  aspiring  to  the  skies,  and  leading 
to  an  enchanted  castle,  but  a  huge  growth  of  intertwisted 
fibres,  grasping  the  earth  by  numberless  roots  of  custom, 
habit,  and  affection,  and  bearing  vestiges  of  "  a  thousand 
storms,  a  thousand  thunders." 

When  I  first  met  Ilazlitt,  in  tlie  year  1815,  he  was 
staggering  under  the  blow  of  Waterloo.  The  re-appear- 
ance of  his  imperial  idol  on  the  coast  of  France,  and  his 
triumphant  march  to  Paris,  like  a  fairy  vision,  had  excited 
his  admiration  and  sympathy  to  the  utmost  piicli;  and 
though  in  many  respects  sturdily  English  in  feeling,  he 


284  WILLIAM    IIAZLITT. 

could  scarcely  forgive  the  valor  of  the  conquerors ;  and 
bitterly  resented  the  captivity  of  the  Emperor  in  St.  He- 
lena, which  followed  it,  as  if  he  had  sustained  a  personal 
wrong.     On  this  subject  only,  he  was  "  eaten  up  with  pas- 
sion ;"  on  all  others  he  was  the  fairest,  the  most  candid 
of  reasoners.     His  countenance  was  then  handsome,  but 
marked  by  a  painful  expression  ;  his  black  hair,  which  had 
curled  stiffly  over  his  temples,  had  scarcely  received  its 
first  tints  of  gray ;  his  gait  was  awkward ;  his  dress  was 
neglected  ;  and,  in  the  company  of  strangers,  his  bashful- 
ness  was  almost  painful — but  when,  in  the  society  of  Lamb 
and  one  or  two  others,  he   talked  on  his  favorite  themes 
of  old  English  books,  or   old   Italian  pictures,  no   one's 
conversation  could  be  more  delightful.     The  poets,  from 
intercourse  with  whom  he  had  drawn  so  much  of  his  taste, 
and  who  had  contributed   to  shed  the  noble  infection  of 
beauty  through  his  reasoning  faculties,  had  scarcely  the 
opportunity  of  appreciating   their  progress.     It  w^as,  in 
after  years,  by  the  fire-side  of  "the   Lambs,"  that  liis 
tongue  was  gradually  loosened,  and  his  passionate  thoughts 
found  appropriate  words.     There  his  struggles  to  express 
the  fine  conceptions  with  which  his  mind  was  filled  were 
encouraged  by  entire  sympathy ;  there  he  began  to  stam- 
mer out  his  just  and  original  conceptions  of  Chaucer  and 
Spenser,  and  other  English  poets  and  prose  writers,  more 
talked  of,  though  not  better  known,  by  their  countrymen ; 
there   he   was    thoroughly   understood    and    dexterously 
cheered  by  Miss  Lamb,  whose  nice  discernmeiu   uf  his 
first  eft'orts  in  conversation  Avere  dwelt  upon  by  him  with 
affectionate  gratitude,  even  when  most  out  of  humor  Avith 
the  world.     When  he  mastered  his  diffidence,  he  did  not 
talk  for  effect,  to  dazzle,  or  surprise,  or  annoy,  but  Avith 
the  most  simple  and  honest  desire  to  make  his  vicAV  of  the 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT.  285 

subject  in  hand  entirely  apprehended  by  his  hearer.  There 
■«-as  sometimes  an  obvious  struggle  to  do  this  to  his  own 
satisfaction  ;  he  seemed  laboring  to  drag  his  thought  to 
light  from  its  deep  lurking-place ;  and,  with  timid  distrust 
of  that  power  of  expression  which  he  had  found  so  late 
in  life,  he  often  betrayed  a  fear  lest  he  had  failed  to  make 
himself  understood,  and  recurred  to  the  subject  .again  and 
ao-ain,  that  he  might  be  assured  he  had  succeeded.  With 
a  certain  doggedness  of  manner,  he  showed  nothing  prag- 
matical or  exclusive ;  he  never  drove  a  principle  to  its  ut- 
most possible  consequences,  but,  like  Locksley,  "  allowed 
for  the  wind."  For  some  years  previous  to  his  death  he 
observed  an  entire  abstinence  from  fermented  liquors, 
•which  he  had  once  quaffed  with  the  proper  relish  he  had 
for  all  the  good  things  of  this  life,  but  which  he  courage- 
ously resigned  when  he  found  the  indulgence  perilous  to 
his  health  and  faculties.  The  cheerfulness  with  wdiich  he 
made  this  sacrifice  was  one  of  the  most  amiable  traits  in 
his  character.  He  had  no  censure  for  others,  who,  in  the 
same  dangers,  were  less  wise  or  less  resolute ;  nor  did  he 
think  he  had  earned,  by  his  own  constancy,  any  right  to 
intrude  advice  which  he  knew,  if  wanted,  must  be  una- 
vailing. Nor  did  he  profess  to  be  a  convert  to  the  gene- 
ral system  of  abstinence,  which  was  advanced  by  one  of 
his  kindest  and  staunchest  friends  ;  he  avowed  that  he 
yielded  to  necessity ;  and  instead  of  avoiding  the  sight  of 
that  which  he  could  no  longer  taste,  he  was  seldom  so  hap- 
py as  when  he  sat  with  friends  at  their  wine,  participating 
the  sociality  of  the  time,  and  renewing  liis  own  past  en- 
joyment in  that  of  his  companions,  witliout  regret  and 
without  envy.  Like  Dr.  Jolmson,  lie  made  himself  poor 
amends  for  the  loss  of  Avine  by  drinking  tea,  not  so  largely, 
indeed,  as  the  hero  of  Boswell,  but  at  least  of  equal  po- 


286  WILLIAM   IIAZLITT. 

tcncy ;  for  he  might  have  challenged  Mrs.  Thrale  and  all 
her  sex  to  make  stronger  tea  than  his  own.  In  society, 
as  in  politics,  he  was  no  flincher.  He  loved  "  to  hear  the 
chimes  at  midnight,"  without  considering  them  as  a  sum- 
mons to  rise.  At  these  seasons,  when  in  his  happiest 
mood,  he  used  to  dwell  on  the  conversational  powers  of 
his  friends,  and  live  over  again  the  delightful  hours  he 
had  passed  with  them ;  repeat  the  pregnant  puns  that  one 
had  made  ;  tell  over  again  a  story  with  which  another  had 
convulsed  the  room  ;  or  expatiate  on  the  eloquence  of  a 
third ;  always  host  pleased  when  he  could  detect  some  tal- 
ent which  was  unregarded  hy  the  world,  and  giving  alike, 
to  the  celebrated  and  the  unknown,  due  honor. 

Mr.  Hazlitt  delivered  three  courses  of  lectures  at  tho 
Surrey  Institution,  on  The  English  Poets;  on  The 
English  Comic  Writers  ;  and  on  The  Age  of  Elizabeth  ; 
which  Lamb  (under  protest  against  lectures  in  general) 
regularly  attended,  an  earnest  admirer,  amidst  crowds 
with  whom  the  lecturer  had  "  an  imperfect  sympathy." 
They  consisted  chiefly  of  Dissenters,  who  agreed  with  him 
in  his  hatred  of  Lord  Castlereagh,  and  his  love  of  religious 
freedom,  but  who  "loved  no  plays;"  of  Quakers,  who 
approved  him  as  the  earnest  opponents  of  slavery  and 
capital  punishment,  but  who  "heard  no  music;"  of  citi- 
zens, devoted  to  the  main  chance,  who  had  a  hankering 
after  "the  improvement  of  the  mind;"  but  to  whom  his 
favorite  doctrine  of  its  natural  disinterestedness  was  a 
riddle  ;  of  a  few  enemies  who  came  to  sneer ;  and  a  few 
friends,  who  were  eager  to  learn  and  to  admire.  Tho 
comparative  insensibility  of  the  bulk  of  his  audience  to 
his  finest  passages  sometimes  provoked  him  to  awaken 
their  attention  by  points  which  broke  the  train  of  his  dis- 
course ;  after  which,  he  could  make  himself  amends  bv 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT.  287 

some  abrupt  paradox  ■which  might  set  their  prejudices  on 
edge,  and  make  them  fancy  they  were  shocked.  He 
startled  many  of  them  at  the  onset,  by  observing,  that 
since  Jacob's  dream,  "the  heavens  have  gone  farther  off, 
apd  become  astronomical;"  a  fine  extravagance,  which 
th«i  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  had  grown  astronomical 
themselves  under  the  preceding  lecturer,  felt  called  on  to 
resent  as  an  attack  on  their  severer  studies.  When  he 
read  a  Avell  known  extract  from  Cowpcr,  comparing  a  poor 
cottager  with  Voltaire,  and  had  pronouncL-d  the  line : 
"  A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew,"  they 
broke  into  a  joyous  shout  of  self-gratulation,  that  they 
were  so  much  wiser  than  the  scornful  Frenchman.  When 
he  passed  by  Mrs.  Hannah  More  with  observing  that  "she 
had  written  a  great  deal  which  he  had  never  read,"  a  voice 
gave  expression  to  the  general  commisseration  and  sur- 
prise, by  calling  out  "More  pity  for  you!"  They  were 
confounded  at  his  reading  with  more  emphasis,  perhaps, 
than  discretion,  Gay's  epigrammatic  lines  on  Sir  Richard 
Blackstonc,  in  which  scriptural  persons  are  too  freely 
hitched  into  rhyme  ;  but  he  went  doggedly  on  to  the  end, 
and,  by  his  perseverance,  baffled  those  who,  if  he  had 
acknowledged  himself  wrong,  by  stopping,  would  have 
visited  him  with  an  outburst  of  displeasure  which  he  felt 
to  be  gathering.  He  once  had  a  more  edifying  advantage 
over  them.  He  was  enumerating  the  humanities  which 
endeared  Dr.  Johnson  to  his  mind,  and  at  the  close  of  an 
agreeable  catalogue,  mentioned,  as  last  and  noblest,  "  his 
carrying  the  poor  victim  of  disease  and  dissipation  on  his 
back,  through  Fleet-street,"  at  which  a  titter  arose  from 
some,  who  were  struck  by  the  picture,  as  ludicrous,  and  a 
murmur  from  others,  who  deemed  tlic  allusion  unfit  for 
ears  polite :  he  paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  added,  in 


288  WILLIAM   HAZLITT. 

his  sturdiest  and  most  impressive  manner — "an  act  which 
realises  the  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan  ;"  at  which  his 
moral  and  his  delicate  hearers  shrunk,  rebuked  into  deep 
silence.  He  was  not  eloquent,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
term ;  for  his  thoughts  were  too  weighty  to  be  moved 
along  by  the  shallow  stream  of  feeling  which  an  evening's 
excitement  can  rouse.  He  wrote  all  his  lectures,  and  read 
them  as  they  were  written ;  but  his  deep  voice  and  earn- 
est manner  suited  his  matter  well.  He  seemed  to  dig  into 
his  subject,  and  not  in  vain.  In  delivering  his  longer 
quotations,  he  had  scarcely  continuity  enough  for  the  ver- 
sification of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  "with  linked  sweet- 
ness long  drawn  out ;"  but  he  gave  Pope's  brilliant  satire 
and  delightful  compliments,  which  are  usually  complete 
within  the  couplet,  with  an  elegance  and  point  which  the 
poet  himself,  could  he  have  heard,  would  have  felt  as  in- 
dicating their  highest  praise. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  having  suffered  for  many  years  from  de- 
rangement of  the  digestive  organs,  for  which  perhaps  a  mode- 
rate use  of  fermented  liquors  would  have  been  preferable  to 
abstinence,  solaced  only  by  the  intense  tincture  of  tea,  in 
which  he  found  refuge,  worn  out  at  last,  died  on  18th 
Sept.,  1830,  at  the  age  of  fifty-two.  Lamb  frequently 
visited  him  during  his  sufi"erings,  which  were  not,  as  has 
been  erroneously  suggested,  aggravated  by  the  want  of ' 
needful  comforts ;  for  although  his  careless  habits  had 
left  no  provision  for  sickness,  his  friends  gladly  acknow- 
ledged, by  their  united  aid,  the  deep  intellectual  obliga- 
tions due  to  the  great  thinker.  In  a  moment  of  acute 
pain,  Avhen  the  needless  apprehension  for  the  future  rushed 
upon  him,  he  dictated  a  brief  and  peremptory  letter  to  the 
editor  of  the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  requiring  a  conside- 
rable remittance,  to  which  he  had  no  claim  but  that  of 


THOMAS   BARNES.  289 

former  remunerated  services,  which  the  friend,  Avho  obeyed 
his  bidding,  feared  might  excite  displeasure ;  but  he  mis- 
took Francis  Jeffrey  ;  the  sum  demanded  was  received  by 
return  of  post,  with  the  most  anxious  wishes  for  Hazlitt's 
recovery — just  too  late  for  him  to  understand  his  error. 
Lamb  joined  a  few  friends  in  attending  his  funeral  in  the 
church-yard  of  St.  Anne's  Soho,  where  he  was  interred, 
and  felt  his  loss  not  so  violently  at  the  time,  as  mourn- 
fully in  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  sense  that  a  chief 
source  of  intellectual  pleasure  was  stopped.  His  personal 
frailties  are  nothing  to  us  now ;  his  thoughts  survive ;  in 
them  we  have  his  better  part  entire,  and  in  them  must  be 
traced  his  true  history.  The  real  events  of  his  life  are 
not  to  be  traced  in  its  external  changes  ;  as  his  engage- 
ment by  the  "  Morning  Chronicle,"  or  his  transfer  of  his 
services  to  the  "  Times,"  or  his  introduction  to  the  "Edin- 
burgh Review;"  but  in  the  progress  and  development  of 
his  fine  understanding  as  nurtured  and  checked  and 
Bwayed  by  his  affections.  His  warfare  was  within;  its 
spoils  are  ours  ! 

One  of  the  soundest  and  most  elegant  scholars  whom 
the  school  of  Christ's  Hospital  ever  produced,  Mr.  Thomas 
Barnes,  was  a  frequent  guest  at  Lamb's  chambers  in  the 
Temple ;  and  though  the  responsibilities  he  undertook, 
before  Lamb  quitted  that,  his  happiest  abode,  prevented 
him  from  visiting  often  at  Great  Russel-street,  at  Isling- 
ton, or  Enfield,  he  was  always  ready  to  assist  by  the  kind 
word  of  the  powerful  journal  in  which  he  became  most 
potent,  the  expanding  reputation  of  his  school-mate  and 
friend.  After  establishing  a  high  social  and  intellectual 
character  at  Cambridge,  he  had  entered  the  legal  profes- 
sion as  a  special  pleader,  but  was  prevented  from  apply- 
ing the  needful  devotion  to  that  laborious  pursuit  by  vio- 


290  THOMAS   BARNES. 

lent  rheumatic  affections,  which  he  solaced  by  writing 
critiques  and  essays  of  rare  merit.  So  shattered  did  he 
appear  in  health,  that  when  his  friends  learned  that  he 
had  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  "  Times"  newspaper, 
they  almost  shuddered  at  the  attempt  as  suicidal,  and 
anticipated  a  speedy  ruin  to  his  constitution  from  the 
pressure  of  constant  labor  and  anxiet}^  on  the  least  health- 
ful hours  of  toil.  But  he  had  judged  bettor  than  they  of 
his  own  physical  and  intellectual  resources,  and  the  mode 
in  which  the  grave  responsibility  and  constant  exertion  of 
his  office  vfould  affect  both ;  for  the  regular  eff'ort  consoli- 
dated his  feverish  strength,  gave  evenness  and  tranquillity 
to  a  life  of  serious  exertion,  and  supplied,  for  many  years, 
power  equal  to  the  perpetual  demand  ;  aff'ording  a  striking 
example  how,  when  finely  attuned,  the  mind  can  influence 
the  body  to  its  uses.  The  facile  adaptation  of  his  intel- 
lect to  his  new  duties  was  scarcely  less  remarkable  than 
the  mastery  it  achieved  over  his  desultory  habits  and 
physical  infirmities ;  for,  until  then,  it  had  seemed  more 
refined  than  vigorous — more  elegant  than  weighty — too 
fastidious  to  endure  the  supervision  and  arrangement  of 
innumerable  reports,  paragraphs,  and  essays ;  but,  while 
a  scholarly  grace  was  shed  by  him  through  all  he  wrote 
or  moulded,  the  needful  vigor  was  never  wanting  to  the 
high  oflice  of  superintending  the  great  daily  miracle ;  to 
the  discipline  of  its  various  contributors ;  or  to  the  com- 
position of  articles  which  he  Avas  always  ready,  on  the 
instant  of  emergency,  to  supply. 

Mr.  Barnes,  linked  by  school  associations  with  Leigh 
Hunt,  filled  the  theatrical  department  of  criticism  in  the 
'■•Examiner"  during  the  period  when  the  Editor's  im- 
prisonment for  alleged  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent  pre- 
cluded his  attendance  on  the  theatres.     It  was  no  easy 


i 


THOMAS   BARNES.  291 

office  of  friendship  to  supply  the  place  of  Hunt  in  the  de- 
partment of  criticism,  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have  in- 
vented ;  but  Mr.  Barnes,  though  in  a  different  style,  well 
sustained  the  attractions  of  the  "Theatrical  Examiner." 
Fortunately  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Kean  during  this  in- 
terval enabled  him  to  gratify  the  profound  enthusiasm  of 
his  nature,  without  doing  violence  to  the  fastidious  taste 
to  which  it  was  usually  subjected.  lie  perceived  at  once 
the  vivid  energy  of  the  new  actor ;  understood  his  faults 
to  be  better  than  the  excellencies  of  ordinary  aspirants ; 
and  hailed  him  with  the  most  generous  praise — the  more 
valuable  as  it  proceeded  from  one  rarely  induced  to  ren- 
der applause,  and  never  yielding  it  except  on  the  convic- 
tion of  true  excellence.  Hazlitt,  who  contributed  theatri- 
cal criticism,  at  the  same  time,  to  the  "  Morning  Chroni- 
cle," and  who  astounded  the  tame  mediocrity  of  Mr. 
Perry's  subordinates  by  liis  earnest  eulogy,  and  Barnes, 
had  the  satisfaction  of  first  appreciating  this  unfriended 
performer,  and  while  many  were  offended  by  the  daring 
novelty  of  his  style,  and  more  stood  aloof  with  fashionable 
indifference  from  a  deserted  theatre,  of  awakening  that 
spirit  which  retrieved  the  fortunes  of  Old  Drury — which 
revived,  for  a  brilliant  interval,  the  interest  of  the  English 
stage,  and  which  bore  the  actor  on  a  tide  of  intoxicating 
success  that  "  knew  no  retiring  ebb,"  till  it  was  unhajipily 
checked  by  his  own  lamentable  frailties."* 

*  As  the  Essays  of  Mr.  Barnes  have  never  been  coUectetl,  I  take  lenvo  to 
present  to  the  reader  the  conclusion  of  his  article  in  the  "  Examiner"  of  Feb- 
ruary 27,  1814,  on  the  flrst  appearance  of  Mr.  Kean  in  Richard: — 

"III  the  heroic  parts,  he  animated  every  spectator  with  his  own  foeliiiga; 
when  ho  exclaimed  '  that  a  thousand  hearts  wore  swelliiig  in  his  bosom,'  tbd 
house  shouted  to  express  their  accordance  to  u  truth  so  nobly  exempiilied  by 
the  energy  of  his  voice,  by  the  grandeur  of  his  mien.  His  doalh-sceno  wftS 
the  grandest  conception,  and  exucutod  in  the  most  im])ressivo  manner:  it 
was  a  piece  of  noble  poetry,  expressed  l>y  action  instead  of  language.     Hg 


292  THOMAS    BARNES. 

The  manners  of  Mr.  Barnes,  though  extremely  cour- 
teous, were  so  reserved  as  to  seem  cold  to  strangers  ;  but 
they  Yi'ere  changed,  as  by  magic,  by  the  contemplation  of 
moral  or  intellectual  beauty,  awakened  in  a  small  circle. 
I  well  remember  him,  late  one  evening,  in  the  year  1816, 
when  only  two  or  three  friends  remained  with  Lamb  and 
his  sister,  long  after  "  we  had  heard  the  chimes  at  mid- 
night," holding  inveterate  but  delighted  controversy  with 
Lamb,  respecting  the  tragic  power  of  Dante  as  compared 
with  that  of  Shakspeare.  Dante  w^as  scarcely  known  to 
Lamb,  for  he  was  unable  to  read  the  original,  and  Gary's 
noble  translation  was  not  then  known  to  him ;  and  Barnes 
aspired  to  the  glory  of  affording  him  a  glimpse  of  a  kin- 
dred greatness  in  the  mighty  Italian  with  that  which  he 
had  conceived  incapable  of  human  rivalry.  The  face  of 
the  advocate  of  Dante,  heavy  when  in  repose,  grew  bright 
with  earnest  admiration  as  he  quoted  images,  sentiments, 
dialogues,  against  Lamb,  who  had  taken  his  own  immortal 
Btand  on  Lear,  and  urged  the  supremacy  of  the  child- 
changed  father  against  all  the  possible  Ugolinos  of  the 
world.     Some  reference  having  been  made  by  Lamb  to  his 

fights  desperately  :  ho  is  disarmed  and  exhausted  of  all  bodilj'  strength :  he 
disdains  to  full,  and  his  strong  volition  keeps  him  standing;  he  fixes  that 
bead,  fall  of  intellectual  and  heroic  power,  directly  on  the  enemy  :  he  bears 
up  his  chest  with  an  expression  which  seems  swelling  with  more  than  human 
spirit :  he  holds  his  uplifted  arm  in  calm  but  dreadful  defiance  of  his  con- 
queror. But  he  is  but  man,  and  he  falls  after  this  sublime  effort  senseless  to 
the  ground.  We  have  felt  our  eyes  gush  on  reading  a  passage  of  exquisite 
poetry.  AVe  have  been  ready  to  leap  at  sight  of  a  noble  picture,  but  we  never 
felt  stronger  emotion,  more  over-powering  sensations,  than  were  kindled  by 
the  novel  sublimity  of  this  catastrophe.  In  matters  of  mere  taste,  there  will 
bo  a  difference  of  opinion;  but  hero  there  was  no  room  to  doubt,  no  rea- 
son could  be  imprudent  enough  to  hesitate.  Every  heart  beat  an  echo  res- 
ponsive to  this  call  of  elevated  nature,  and  yearned  with  fondness  towards 
the  man  who,  while  he  excited  admiration  for  himself,  made  also  his  admirers 
glow  with  a  warmth  of  conscious  superiority,  because  they  were  able  toappre» 
elate  such  an  exalted  degree  of  excellence." 


THOMAS   BARNES.  293 

own  exposition  of  Lear,  which  had  been  recently  pub- 
lished in  a  magazine,  edited  by  Leigh  Hunt,  under  the 
«:itle  of  "  The  Reflector,"  touched  another  and  a  tenderer 
string  of  feeling,  turned  a  little  the  course  of  his  enthusi- 
asm the  more  to  inflame  it,  and  brought  out  a  burst  of 
afiectionate  admiration  for  his  friend,  then  scarcely  known 
to  the  world,  which  was  the  more  striking  for  its  contrast 
with  his  usually  sedate  demeanour.  I  think  I  see  him 
now,  leaning  forward  upon  the  little  table  on  which  the 
candles  were  just  expiring  in  their  sockets,  his  fists 
clenched,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  his  face  bathed  in  perspir- 
ation, exclaiming  to  Lamb,  "  And  do  I  not  know,  my  boy, 
that  you  have  written  about  Shakspeare,  and  Shakspeare'a 
own  Lear,  finer  than  any  one  ever  did  in  the  world,  and 
won't  I  let  the  world  know  it  ?"  lie  Avas  right;  there  is 
no  criticism  in  the  world  more  worthy  of  the  genius  it  es- 
timates than  that  little  passage  referred  to  on  Lear ;  few 
felt  it  then  like  Barnes  ;  thousands  have  read  it  since, 
here,  and  tens  of  thousands  in  America ;  and  have  felt  as 
he  did,  and  will  answer  for  the  truth  of  that  cxrked  hour. 
Mr.  Barnes  combined  singular  acuteness  of  unaerstand- 
ing  with  remarkable  simplicity  of  character.  If  he  was 
skilful  in  finding  out  those  who  duped  others,  he  made 
some  amends  to  the  world  of  sharpers  by  being  abund- 
antly duped  himself.  He  might  caution  the  public  to  be 
on  their  guard  against  impostors  of  every  kind,  but  hli 
heart  was  open  to  every  species  of  delusion  which  came  in 
the  shape  of  misery.  Poles — real  and  theatrical — refu- 
gees, pretenders  of  all  kinds,  found  tlicir  way  to  the 
"  Times'  "  inner  oflice,  and  thougli  the  inexorable  editor 
excluded  their  lucubrations  from  the  precious  space  of  its 
columns,  he  rarely  omitted  to  make  them  amends  by  large 
contributions  from  his  purse.     The  intimate  acquaintance 

26* 


294  BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON. 

with  all  the  varieties  of  life  forced  on  him  by  his  position 
in  the  midst  of  a  moving  epitome  of  the  world,  which 
vividly  reflected  them  all,  failed  to  teach  him  distrust  or 
discretion.  He  was  a  child  in  the  centre  of  the  iiir^st 
feverish  agitations ;  a  dupe  in  the  midst  of  the  quickest 
apprehensions  ;  and  while,  with  unbending  pride,  he  re- 
pelled the  slightest  interference  with  his  high  functions 
from  the  greatest  quarters,  he  was  open  to  every  tale  from 
the  lowest  which  could  win  from  him  personal  aid.  Rarely 
as  he  Avas  seen  in  his  later  years  in  Lamb's  circle,  he  is 
indestructibly  associated  with  it  in  the  recollection  of  the 
few  survivors  of  its  elder  days ;  and  they  will  lament  with 
me  that  the  influences  for  good  which  he  shed  largely  on 
all  the  departments  of  busy  life,  should  have  necessarily 
left  behind  them  such  slender  memorials  of  one  of  the 
kindest,  the  wisest,  and  the  best  of  men  who  have  ever 
enjoyed  signal  opportunities  of  moulding  public  opinion, 
and  who  have  turned  them  to  the  noblest  and  the  purest 
uses. 

Among  Lamb's  early  acquaintances  and  constant  ad- 
mirers was  an  artist,  whose  chequered  career  and  melan- 
choly death  gave  an  interest  to  the  recollections  with 
which  he  is  linked,  independent  of  that  which  belongs  to 
nis  pictures — Benjamin  Robert  Haydon.  The  ruling 
misfortune  of  his  life  was  somewhat  akin  to  that  dispro- 
portion in  Hazlitt's  mind  to  which  I  have  adverted,  but 
productive  in  his  case  of  more  disastrous  results — the  pos- 
session of  two  difi'erent  faculties  not  harmonised  into  one, 
and  struggling  for  mastery — in  that  disarrangement  of  the 
faculties  in  which  the  unproductive  talent  becomes  not  a 
mere  negative,  but  neutralises  the  other,  and  even  turns 
its  good  into  evil.  Haydon,  the  son  of  a  respectable 
tradesman  at  Plymouth,  was  endowed  with  two  capacities, 


BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HATDON.  295 

either  of  which  exclusively  cultivated  with  the  energy  of 
his  disposition,  might  have  led  to  fortune — the  genius  of 
a  painter,  and  the  passionate  logic  of  a  controversialist ; 
talents  scarcely  capable  of  being  blended  in  harmonious 
action  except  under  the  auspices  of  prosperity,  such  as 
should  satisfy  the  artist  by  fame,  and  appease  the  literary 
combatant  by  triumph. 

The  combination  of  a  turbulent  vivacity  of  mind,  with  a 
fine  aptitude  for  the  most  serene  of  arts,  was  rendered  more 
infelicitous  by  the  circumstances  of  the  young  painter's 
early  career.  lie  was  destined  painfully  to  work  his  way 
at  once  through  the  lower  elements  of  his  art  and  the 
difficulties  of  adverse  fortune;  and  though  by  indomitable 
courage  and  unwearied  industry  he  became  master  of 
anatomic  science,  of  colouring,  and  of  perspective,  and 
achieved  a  position  in  which  his  efforts  might  be  fairly 
presented  to  the  notice  of  the  world,  his  impetuous  tem- 
perament was  yet  further  ruffled  by  the  arduous  and  com- 
plicated struggle.  With  boundless  intellectual  ambition, 
he  sought  to  excel  in  the  loftiest  department  of  his  art ; 
and  undertook  the  double  responsibility  of  painting  great 
pictures,  and  of  creating  the  taste  which  should  appre- 
ciate, and  enforcing  the  patronage  which  should  reward 
them. 

The  patronage  of  high  art,  not  thcu  adopted  by  the  gov- 
ernment, and  far  beyond  the  means  of  individuals  of  the 
middle  class,  necessarily  appertained  to  a  few  members  of 
tlie  aristocracy,  who  alone  could  encourage  and  remune- 
rate the  painters  of  history.  Althouf!;li  the  beginning  of 
Mr.  Haydon's  career  was  not  uncheered  by  aristocratic 
favour,  the  contrast  between  the  greatness  of  his  own  con- 
ceptions and  the  humility  of  the  covsc  which  prudence 
suggested  as  necessary  to  obtain  for  Inmself  the  means  of 


296  BENJAMIN    ROBERT   HATDON. 

developing  them  on  canvass,  fevered  his  nature,  which, 
ardent  in  gratitude  for  the  appreciation  and  assistance  of 
the  wealthy,  to  a  degree  which  might  even  be  mistaken  for 
eervility,  was  also  impatient  of  the  general  indifference 
to  the  cause  of  which  he  sought  to  be,  not  only  the  orna- 
ment, but  unhappily  for  him,  also  the  champion.  Alas  ! 
he  there  "perceived  a  divided  duty."  Had  he  been  con- 
tented silently  to  paint — to  endure  obscurity  and  privation 
for  a  while,  gradually  to  mature  his  powers  of  execution 
and  soften  the  rigour  of  his  style  and  of  his  virtue,  he 
might  have  achieved  works,  not  only  as  vast  in  outline  and 
as  beautiful  in  portions  as  those  which  he  exhibited,  but  so 
harmonious  in  their  excellences  as  to  charm  away  opposi- 
tion, and  ensure  speedy  reputation,  moderate  fortune,  and 
lasting  fame.  But  resolved  to  battle  for  that  which  he 
believed  to  be  "the  right,''  he  rushed  into  a  life-long  con- 
test with  the  Royal  Academy ;  frequently  suspended  the 
gentle  labours  of  the  pencil  for  the  vehement  use  of  the 
pen ;  and  thus  gave  to  his  course  an  air  of  defiance  which 
prevented  the  calm  appreciation  of  his  nobler  works,  and 
increased  the  mischief  by  reaction.  Indignant  of  the 
scorns  "that  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes,"  he 
sometimes  fancied  scorns  which  impatient  merit  in  return 
imputes  to  the  worthy ;  and  thus  instead  of  enjoying  the 
most  tranquil  of  lives  (which  a  painter's  should  be),  led 
one  of  the  most  animated,  restless,  and  broken.  The 
necessary  consequence  of  this  disproportion  was  a  series 
of  pecuniary  embarrassments,  the  direct  result  of  his 
struggle  with  fortune ;  a  succession  of  feverish  triumphs 
and  disappointments,  the  fruits  of  his  contest  with  power  ; 
and  worse  perhaps  than  either,  the  frequent  diversion  of 
his  own  genius  from  its  natural  course,  and  the  hurried 
and  imperfect  development  of  its  most  majestic  concep- 


BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON.  297 

tions.  To  paint  as  finely  as  he  sometimes  did  in  the  ruffled 
pauses  of  his  passionate  controversy,  and  amidst  the  ter- 
rors of  impending  want,  was  to  display  large  innate  re- 
sources of  skill  and  high  energy  of  mind ;  but  how  much 
more  unquestionable  fame  might  he  have  attained  if  his 
disposition  had  permitted  him  to  be  content  with  charming 
the  world  of  art,  instead  of  attempting  also  to  instruct  or 
reform  it ! 

Mr.  Haydon's  course,  though  thus  troubled,  was  one  of 
constant  animation,  and  illustrated  by  hours  of  triumph, 
the  more  radiant  because  they  were  snatched  from  adverse 
fortune  and  a  reluctant  people.  The  exhibition  of  a  sin- 
gle picture  by  an  artist  at  war  with  the  Academy  which 
exhibited  a  thousand  pictures  at  the  same  price — creating 
a  sensation  not  only  among  artists  and  patrons  of  art,  but 
amonfj  the  most  secluded  literary  circles — and  enaragino- 
the  highest  powers  of  criticism — was,  itself,  a  splendid 
occurrence  in  life ;  and,  twice  at  least,  in  the  instance  of 
the  Entry  into  Jerusalem,  and  the  Lazarus,  was  crowned 
with  signal  success.  It  was  a  proud  moment  for  the 
daring  painter,  when,  at  the  opening  of  the  first  of  these 
Exhibitions,  while  the  crowd  of  visitors,  distinguished  in 
rank  or  talent,  stood  doubting  whether  in  the  countenance 
of  the  chief  figure  the  daring  attempt  to  present  an  aspect 
differing  from  that  which  had  enkindled  the  devotion  of 
ages — to  mingle  the  human  with  the  Divine,  resolution 
with  sweetness,  dignified  composure  with  the  anticipation 
of  mighty  suffering — had  not  failed,  jMrs.  Siddons  walked 
slowly  up  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  surveyed  it  in  siknicc 
for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  ejaculated,  in  her  deep,  low, 
thrilling  voice,  "  It  is  perfect !"  (fuelled  all  opposition, 
and  removed  the  doubt,  from  his  own  mind  at  least,  for 
ever. 


'208  BENJAMIN    ROBERT    HAYDON. 

Although  the  great  body  of  artists  to  whose  corporate 
power  Mr.  Hay  don  was  so  passion;)  tely  opposed,  naturally 
stood  aside  from  his  path,  it  was  cheered  by  the  attention 
and  often  hy  tlie  applause  of  the  chief  literary  spirits  of 
the  age,  who  were  attracted  by  a  fierce  intellectual  strug- 
gle. Sir  Walter  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Hazlitt,  Godwin, 
Shelley,  Hunt,  Coleridge,  Lamb,  Keats — and  many  young 
writers  for  periodical  works,  in  the  freshness  of  unhack- 
nied  authorship — took  an  interest  in  a  course  so  gallant 
though  so  troublous,  which  excited  their  sympathy  yet  did 
not  force  them  to  the  irksome  duty  of  unqualified  praise. 
Almost  in  the  outset  of  his  career,  Wordsworth  addressed 
to  him  a  sonnet,  in  heroic  strain,  associating  the  artist's 
calling  with  his  own  ;  making  common  cause  with  him, 
"  while  the  Avhole  Avorld  seems  adverse  to  desert ;"  admon- 
ishing him  "  still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
and  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay  ;"  and,  long  after,  when 
the  poet  had  by  a  wiser  perseverance,  gradually  created 
the  taste  which  appreciated  his  works,  he  celebrated,  in 
another  sonnet,  the  fine  autumnal  conception  in  the  pic- 
ture of  Napoleon  on  the  rock  of  St.  Helena,  with  his  back 
to  the  spectator,  contemplating  the  blank  sea,  left  deso- 
late by  the  sunken  sun.  The  Conqueror  of  Napoleon  also 
recognized  the  artist's  claims,  and  supplied  him  with  ano- 
ther great  subject,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  solitude  of 
Waterloo  by  its  hero,  ten  years  after  the  victory. 

Mr.  Haydon's  vividness  of  mind  burst  out  in  his  con- 
versation, which,  though  somewhat  broken  and  rugged, 
like  his  career,  had  also  like  that  a  vein  of  beauty  streaking 
it.  Having  associated  with  most  of  the  remarkable  per- 
sons of  his  time,  and  seen  strange  varieties  of  "  many- 
colored  life" — gifted  with  a  rapid  perception  of  character 
and  a  painter's  eye  for  effect — he  was  able  to  hit  off,  with 


BENJAMIN   ROBERT   HAYDON.  299 

Startling  facility,  sketches  in  words  which  lived  b'efore  the 
hearer.  His  anxieties  and  sorrows  did  not  destroy  the 
buoyancy  of  his  spirits  or  rob  the  convivial  moment  of  its 
prosperity ;  so  that  he  struggled,  and  toiled,  and  laughed, 
and  triumphed,  and  failed,  and  hoped  on,  till  the  waning 
of  life  approached  and  found  him  still  in  opposition  to  the 
world,  and  far  from  the  threshold  of  fortune.  The  object 
of  his  literary  exertions  was  partially  attained ;  the  na- 
tional attention  had  been  directed  to  high  art ;  but  he  did 
not  pf  rsonally  share  in  the  benefits  he  had  greatly  con- 
tributed to  win.  ^ven  his  cartoon  of  the  Curse  in  Para- 
dise failed  to  obtain  a  prize  when  he  entered  the  arena 
with  unfledged  youths  for  competitors  ;  and  the  desertion 
of  the  exhibition  of  his  two  pictures  of  Aristides  and  Nero, 
at  the  Egyptian  Hall,  by  the  public,  for  the  neighboring 
exposure  of  the  clever  manikin,  General  Tom  Thumb, 
quite  vanquished  him.  It  was  indeed  a  melancholy  con- 
trast ;  the  unending  succession  of  bright  crowds  thronging 
the  levees  of  the  small  abortion,  and  the  dim  and  dusty 
room  in  which  the  two  latest  historical  pictures  of  the 
veteran  hung  for  hours  without  a  visitor.  Opposition, 
abuse,  even  neglect  he  could  have  borne,  but  the  sense  of 
ridicule  involved  in  such  a  juxtaposition  drove  him  to 
despair.  No  one  who  knew  him  ever  apprehended  from 
his  disasters  such  a  catastrophe  as  that  which  closed  them. 
He  had  always  cherished  a  belief  in  the  religion  of  our 
Church,  and  avowed  it  among  scofiing  unbelievers ;  and 
that  belief  he  asserted  even  in  the  wild  fragments  he  pen- 
ned in  his  last  terrible  hour.  His  friends  thought  that 
even  the  sense  of  the  injustice  of  the  world  would  have 
contributed  with  his  undimmcd  consciousness  of  his  own 
powers  to  enable  him  to  endure.  In  his  domestic  rela- 
tions also  he  was  happy,  blessed  in  the  affection  of  a  wife 


300  SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 

of  great  beauty  and  equal  discretion,  who,  by  gentler 
temper  and  serener  wisdom  than  his  own,  had  assisted 
and  soothed  him  in  all  his  anxieties  and  griefs,  and  whose 
image  was  so  identified  in  his  mind  with  the  beautiful  as 
to  impress  its  character  on  all  the  forms  of  female  loveli- 
ness he  had  created.  Those  who  knew  him  best  feel  the 
strongest  assurance,  that  notwithstanding  the  appearances 
of  preparation  which  attended  his  extraordinary  suicide, 
his  mind  was  shattered  to  pieces — all  distorted  and  broken 
— with  only  one  feeling  left  entire,  the  perversion  of  which 
led  to  the  deed,  a  hope  to  awaken  sympathy  in  death  for 
those  whom  living  he  could  not  shelter.  The  last  hurried 
lines  he  wrote,  entitled  "  Haydon's  last  Thoughts,"  con- 
sisted of  a  fevered  comparison  between  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington and  Napoleon,  in  which  he  seemed  to  wish  to  re- 
pair some  supposed  injustice  which  in  speech  or  writing 
he  had  done  to  the  Conqueror.  It  was  enclosed  in  a  let- 
ter addressed  to  three  fi-iends,  written  in  the  hour  of  his 
death,  and  containing  sad  fragmental  memorials  of  those 
passionate  hopes,  fierce  struggles,  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ments which  brought  him  through  distraction  to  the  grave ! 
A  visit  of  Coleridge  was  always  regarded  by  Lamb, 
as  an  opportunity  to  afford  a  rare  gratification  to  a  few 
friends,  who,  he  knew,  would  prize  it ;  and  I  well  remem- 
ber the  flush  of  prideful  pleasure  which  came  over  his 
face  as  he  would  hurry,  on  his  way  to  the  India  House, 
into  the  office  in  which  I  was  a  pupil,  and  stammer  out 
the  welcome  invitation  for  the  evening.  This  was  true 
self-sacrifice ;  for  Lamb  would  have  infinitely  preferred 
having  his  inspired  friend  to  himself  and  his  sister,  for  a 
brief  renewal  of  the  old  Salutation  delights  ;  but,  I  believe, 
he  never  permitted  himself  to  enjoy  this  exclusive  treat. 
The  pleasure  he  conferred  was  great ;  for  of  all  celebrated 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE,  301 

persons  I  ever  saw,  Coleridge  alone  surpassed  the  expec- 
tation created  by  his  writings ;  for  he  not  only  was,  but 
appeared  to  be,  greater  than  the  noblest  things  he  had 
written. 

Lamb  used  to  speak,  sometimes  with  a  moistened  eye 
and  quivering  lip,  of  Coleridge  when  young,  and  Avish 
that  we  could  have  seen  him  in  the  spring-time  of  his  ge- 
nius, at  a  supper  in  the  little  sanded  parlor  of  the  old 
Salutation  hostel.  The  promise  of  those  days  was  never 
realized,  by  the  execution  of  any  of  the  mighty  works  he 
planned ;  but  the  very  failure  gave  a  sort  of  mournful  in- 
terest to  the  "  large  discourse,  looking  before  and  after," 
to  which  we  were  enchanted  listeners ;  to  the  wisdom 
which  lives  only  in  our  memories,  and  must  perish  with 
them. 

From  Coleridge's  early  works,  some  notion  may  be 
gleaned  of  what  he  was;  when  the  steep  ascent  of  fame 
rose  directly  before  him,  while  he  might  loiter  to  dally 
with  the  expectation  of  its  summit,  without  ignobly  shrink- 
ino-  from  its  labors.  His  endowments  at  that  time — the 
close  of  the  last  century — when  literature  had  faded  into 
a  fashion  of  poor  language,  must  have  seemed,  to  a  mind 
and  heart  like  Lamb's,  no  less  than  miraculous. 

A  rich  store  of  classical  knowledge — a  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  almost  verging  on  the  effeminate — a  facile  power 
of  melody,  varying  from  the  solemn  stops  of  the  organ 
to  a  bird-like  flutter  of  airy  sound — the  glorious  faculty 
of  poetic  hope,  exerted  on  human  prospects,  and  present- 
ing its  results  with  the  vividness  of  prophecy ;  a  power 
of  imaginative  reasoning  which  peopled  the  nearer  ground 
of  contemplation  with  thoughts 

"  All  plumed  like  ostriuhes,  like  eaj^les  bathed, 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeoua  as  the  sun  at  Midsummer," 

26 


302  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

endowed  the  author  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and 
"  Christabel."  Thus  gifted,  he  glided  from  youth  into 
manhood,  as  a  fairy  voyager  on  a  summer  sea,  to  eddy 
round  and  round  in  dazzling  circles,  and  to  make  little 
progress,  at  last,  towards  any  of  those  thousand  mountain 
summits  which,  glorified  by  aerial  tints,  rose  before  him 
at  the  extreme  verge  of  the  vast  horizon  of  his  genius. 
"The  Ancient  Mariner,"  printed  with  the  "Lyrical  Bal- 
lads," one  of  his  earliest  works,  is  still  his  finest  poem — 
at  once  the  most  vigorous  in  design  and  the  most  chaste 
in  execution — developing  the  intensest  human  affection, 
amidst  the  wildest  scenery  of  a  poet's  dream.  Nothing 
was  too  bright  to  hope  from  such  a  dawn.  The  mind  of 
Coleridge  seemed  the  harbinger  of  the  golden  years  his 
enthusiasm  predicted  and  painted  ; — of  those  days  of  peace 
on  earth  and  good  will  among  men,  which  the  best  and 
greatest  minds  have  rejoiced  to  anticipate — and  the  ear- 
nest belief  in  which  is  better  than  all  frivolous  enjoyments, 
all  worldly  wisdom,  all  worldly  success.  And  if  the  noon- 
tide of  his  genius  did  not  fulfil  his  youth's  promise  of 
manly  vigor,  nor  the  setting  of  his  earthly  life  honor  it  by 
an  answering  serenity  of  greatness — they  still  have  left 
us  abundant  reason  to  be  grateful  that  the  glorious  frag- 
ments of  his  mighty  and  imperfect  being  were  ours.  Cloud 
after  cloud  of  German  metaphysics  rolled  before  his  ima- 
gination— Avhich  it  had  ^^ower  to  irradiate  with  fantastic 
beauty,  and  to  break  into  a  thousand  shifting  forms  of 
grandeur,  though  not  to  conquer  ;  mist  after  mist  ascended 
from  those  streams  where  earth  and  sky  should  have 
blended  in  one  imagery,  and  were  turned  by  its  obscured 
glory  to  radiant  haze ;  indulgence  in  the  fearful  luxury 
of  that  talismanic  drug,  which  opens  glittering  scenes  of 
fantastic  beauty  on  the  waking  soul  to  leave  it  in  arid 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.  303 

desolation,  too  often  veiled  it  in  partial  eclipse,  and  blended 
fitful  light  "\\"itli  melancholy  blackness  over  its  vast  domain  ; 
but  the  great  central  light  remained  unquenched,  and  cast 
its  gleams  through  every  department  of  human  knowledge. 
A  boundlesr  capacity  to  receive  and  retain  intellectual 
treasure  made  him  the  possessor  of  vaster  stores  of  lore, 
classical,  antiquarian,  historical,  biblical,  and  miscellane- 
ous, than  were  ever  vouchsafed,  at  least  in  our  time,  to  a 
mortal  being  ;  goodly  structures  of  divine  philosophy  rose 
before  him  like  exhalations  on  the  table-land  of  that  his 
prodigious  knowledge ;  but  alas  !  there  was  a  deficiency 
of  the  power  of  voluntary  action  which  would  have  left 
him  unable  to  embody  the  shapes  of  a  shepherd's  dreams, 
and  made  him  feeble  as  an  infant  before  the  overpowering 
majesty  of  his  own  !  Hence  his  literary  life  became  one 
splendid  and  sad  prospectus — resembling  only  the  portal 
of  a  mighty  temple  which  it  was  forbidden  us  to  enter — 
but  whence  strains  of  rich  music  issuing  "  took  the  pri- 
soned soul  and  lapped  it  in  Elysium,"  and  fragments  of 
oracular  wisdom  startled  the  thought  tliey  could  not 
satisfy. 

Hence  the  riches  of  his  mind  were  developed,  not  in 
writing,  but  in  his  speech — conversation  I  can  scarcely 
call  it — which  no  one  who  once  heard  can  ever  forget. 
Unable  to  work  in  solitude,  ho  sought  the  gentle  stimulus 
of  social  admiration,  and  under  its  influence  poured  forth, 
without  stint,  the  marvellous  resoui-ccs  of  a  mind  rich  in 
the  spoils  of  time — richer — richer  far  in  its  own  glorioun 
imagination  and  delicate  fancy  !  There  was  a  noble  j)ro- 
digality  in  these  outpourings;  a  generous  disdain  of  self; 
an  earnest  desire  to  scatter  abroad  the  seeds  of  wisdom 
and  beauty,  to  take  root  Avhcrcvcr  they  might  fall,  and 
spring  up  without  bearing  his  name    or  impress,  which 


304  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

miglit  remind  the  listener  of  the  first  days  of  poetry  be« 
fore  it  became  individualized  by  the  press,  "when  the  Hom- 
eric rhapsodist  "wandered  through  ne^y-born  cities  and 
scattered  hovels,  flashing  upon  the  minds  of  the  "wonder- 
ing audience  the  bright  train  of  heroic  shapes,  the  series 
of  godlike  exploits,  and  sought  no  record  more  enduring 
than  the  fleshly  tablets  of  his  hearers'  hearts  ;  no  memory 
but  that  of  genial  tradition ;  "when  copyright  did  not  as- 
certain the  reciter's  property,  nor  marble  at  once  perpetu- 
ate and  shed  chillness  on  his  fame — 

"  His  bounty  was  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
His  love  as  deep." 

Like  the  ocean,  in  all  its  variety  of  gentle  moods,  his 
discourse  perpetually  ebbed  and  flowed — nothing  in  it 
angular,  nothing  of  set  purpose,  but  no"w  trembling  as  the 
"voice  of  divine  philosophy,  "not  harsh  nor  crabbed,  as 
dull  fools  suppose,  but  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute,"  "was 
"wafted  over  the  summer  wave  ;  now  glistening  in  long  line 
of  light  over  some  obscure  subject,  like  the  path  of  moon- 
light on  the  black  w^ater ;  and,  if  ever  receding  from  the 
shore,  driven  by  some  sudden  gust  of  inspiration,  disclos- 
ing the  treasures  of  the  deep,  like  the  rich  strond  in 
Spenser,  "far  sunken  in  their  sunless  treasuries,"  to  be 
covered  anon  by  the  foam  of  the  same  immortal  tide. 
The  benignity  of  his  manner  befitted  the  beauty  of  his 
disquisitions  ;  his  voice  rose  from  the  gentlest  pitch  of 
conversation  to  the  height  of  impassioned  eloquence  with- 
out cfibrt,  as  his  language  expanded  from  some  common 
topic  of  the  day  to  the  loftiest  abstractions  ;  ascending 
by  a  winding  track  of  spiral  glory  to  the  highest  truths 
which  the  naked  eye  could  discern,  and  suggesting  starry 
region^s,  beyond  which  his  own  telescopic  gaze  might  pos- 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE.  305 

sibly  decipher.  Tf  his  entranced  hearers  often  were  un- 
able to  perceive  the  bearings  of  his  argument — too  mighty 
for  any  grasp  but  his  own — and  sometimes  reaching  be- 
yond his  own — they  understood  "  a  beauly  in  the  words, 
if  not  the  words  ;"  and  a  wisdom  and  piety  in  the  illustra- 
tions, even  when  unable  to  connect  them  with  the  idea 
which  he  desired  to  illustrate.  If  an  entire  scheme  of 
moral  philosophy  was  never  developed  by  him,  either  in 
speaking  or  writing,  all  the  parts  were  great ;  vast  bibli- 
cal knowledge,  though  sometimes  eddying  in  splendid  con- 
jecture, was  always  employed  with  pious  reverence  ;  the 
morality  suggested  was  at  once  elevated  and  genial ;  the 
charity  hoped  all  things ;  and  the  mighty  imaginative 
reasoner  seemed  almost  to  realize  the  condition  suggested 
by  the  great  Apostle,  "  that  he  understood  all  mysteries 
and  all  knowdcdge,  and  spake  with  the  tongues  both  of 
men  and  angels  !" 

After  Coleridge  had  found  his  last  earthly  refuge,  un- 
der the  wise  and  generous  care  of  Mr.  Gilman,  at  High- 
gate,  he  rarely  visited  Lamb,  and  my  opportunities  of  ob- 
serving him  ceaseil.  From  those  who  were  more  favored, 
as  well  as  from  the  fragments  I  have  seen  of  his  last  effu- 
sions, I  know  that,  amidst  suffering  and  weakness,  his 
mighty  mind  concentrated  its  energies  on  the  highest  sub- 
jects which  had  ever  kindled  them ;  that  the  speculations, 
which  sometimes  seemed  like  paradox,  because  their  ex- 
tent was  too  vast  to  be  comprehended  in  a  single  grasp 
of  intellectual  vision,  were  informed  by  a  sercner  wisdom; 
that  his  perceptions  of  the  central  truth  became  more  un- 
divided, and  his  piety  more  profound  and  humble.  Ilia 
love  for  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  continued,  to  the  last, 
one  of  the  strongest  of  his  human  affections — of  which, 

26* 


306  SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 

by  the  kindness  of  a  friend,*  I  possess  an  affecting  memo- 
rial under  his  hand,  written  in  the  margin  of  a  volume  of 
his  "  Sybilline  Leaves,"  which — after  his  life-long  habit — 
he  has  enriched  by  manuscript  annotations.  The  poem, 
beside  wdiich  it  is  inscribed,  is  entitled  "  The  Lime-Tree 
Bower  my  Prison,"  composed  by  the  poet  in  June,  1796, 
when  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  who  were  visiting  at  his 
cottage  near  Bristol,  had  left  him  for  a  walk,  which  an 
accidental  lameness  prevented  him  from  sharing.  The 
visitors  are  not  indicated  by  the  poem,  except  that  Charles 
is  designated  by  the  epithet,  against  which  he  jestingly 
remonstrated,  as  "gentle-hearted  Charles  ;"  and  is  repre- 
sented as  "winning  his  way,  with  sad  and  patient  soul, 
through  evil  and  pain,  and  strange  calamity."  Against 
the  title  is  written  as  follows : — 

CH.  &  MARY  LAMB, 

dear  to  my  heart,  yea, 

as  it  were,  my  heart, 

S.  T,  C.  iEt.  63.     1834. 

1797 

1834. 

37  years ! 

This  memorandum,  which  is  penned  with  remarkable 
neati:ess,  must  have  been  made  in  Coleridge's  last  illness, 
as  he  suffered  acutely  for  several  months  before  he  died, 
in  July  of  this  same  year,  1834.  What  a  space  did  that 
thirty-seven  years  of  fond  regard  for  the  brother  and  sister 
occupy  in  a  mind  like  Coleridge's,  peopled  with  immortal 
thoughts  which  might  mviltiply  in  the  true  time,  dialled  in 
heaven,  its  minutes  into  years  ! 

•  Mr.  Richard  "Welsh,  of  Reading,  editor  of  the  Berkshire  Chronicle — one 
of  the  ablest  productions  of  the  Conservative  Periodical  Press. 


xamb's  dead  cOxMpanions.  307 

These  friends  of  Lamb's  whom  I  have  ventured  to 
sketch  in  companionship  with  him,  and  Southey  also, 
whom  1  only  once  saw,  are  all  gone ; — and  others  of  less 
note  in  the  world's  eye  have  followed  them.  Among  those 
of  the  old  set  who  are  gone,  is  Manning,  perhaps  next  to 
Coleridge,  the  dearest  of  them,  whom  Lamb  used  to  speak 
of  as  marvellous  in  a  tete-a-tete,  but  who,  in  company, 
seemed  only  a  courteous  gentleman,  more  disposed  to  listen 
than  to  talk.  In  good  ©W  age  depart'^d  Admiral  Burney, 
frank-hearted  voyager  with  Captain  Cook  round  the  world, 
who  seemed  to  unite  our  society  with  the  circle  over  which 
Dr.  Johnson  reigned ;  who  used  to  tell  of  school-days 
under  the  tutelage  of  Eugene  Aram  ;  how  he  remembered 
the  gentle  usher  pacing  the  play-ground  arm-in-arm  with 
some  one  of  the  elder  boys,  and  seeking  relief  from  the 
unsuspected  burthen  of  his  conscience  by  talking  of  strange 
murders,  and  how  he,  a  child,  had  shuddered  at  the  hand- 
cuifs  on  his  teacher's  hands  when  taken  away  in  the  post- 
chase  to  prison  ; — the  Admiral  being  himself  the  centre 
of  a  little  circle  which  his  sister,  the  famous  authoress  of 
"  Evelina,"  "  Cecelia,"  and  "  Camilla,"  sometimes  graced. 
John  Lamb,  tlie  jovial  and  burly,  who  dared  to  argue  with 
Hazlitt  on  questions  of  art;  Barron  Field,  who  with  vene- 
ration enough  to  feel  all  tlie  despised  greatness  of  Words- 
worth, had  a  sparkling  vivacity,  and,  connected  willi  Lamb 
by  the  link  of  Christ's  Hospital  associations,  shared  largely 
in  his  re""ard  ;  Rickman,  the  sturdiest  of  jovial  compan- 
ions, severe  in  tlie  discipline  of  whist  as  a.t  the  table  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  of  which  he  was  the  principal 
clerk;  and  Alsager,  so  calm,  so  bland,  so  considerate — all 
are  gone.  These  were  all  Temple  guests — friomls  of 
Lamb's  early  days  ;  but  the  companions  of  a  later  time, 
who  first  met  in  Great  Russell-street,  or  Dalston.  or  Is- 


308  LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN. 

lington,  or  Enfield,  have  been  wofully  thinned;  Allan 
Cunningham,  stalwai't  of  form  and  stout  of  heart  and 
verse,  a  ruder  Burns;  Gary,  Lamb's  "pleasantest  of  cler- 
gymen," whose  SAveetness  of  disposition  and  manner  would 
have  prevented  a  stranger  from  guessing  that  he  was  the 
poet  who  had  rendered  the  adamantine  poetry  of  Dante 
into  English  with  kindred  power ;  Hood,  so  grave  and  sad 
and  silent,  that  you  were  astonished  to  recognise  in  him 
the  outpourer  of  a  thousand  wild  fancies,  the  detector  of 
the  inmost  springs  of  pathos,  and  the  powerful  vindicator 
of  poverty  and  toil  before  the  hearts  of  the  prosperous ; 
the  Reverend  Edward  Irving,  who,  after  fulfilling  an  old 
prophecy  he  made  in  Scotland  to  Hazlitt,  thac  he  would 
astonish  and  shake  the  world  by  his  preaching,  sat  humbly 
at  the  feet  of  Coleridge  to  listen  to  wisdom — all  are  gone ; 
the  forms  of  others  associated  with  Lamb's  circle  by  more 
accidental  links  (also  dead)  come  thronging  on  the  memory 
from  the  mist  of  years — Alas  ;  it  is  easier  to  count  those 
that  are  left  of  the  old  familiar  faces  ! 

The  story  of  the  lives  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  is 
now  told  ;  nothing  more  remains  to  be  learned  respecting 
it.  The  known  collateral  branches  of  their  stock  are  ex- 
tinct, and  their  upward  pedigree  lost  in  those  humble 
tracks  on  which  the  steps  of  Time  leave  so  light  an  im- 
press, that  the  dust  of  a  few  years  obliterates  all  traces, 
and  affords  no  clue  to  search  collaterally  for  surviving  rel- 
atives. The  world  has,  -therefore,  all  the  matci'i:ils  for 
judging  of  thcra  which  can  be  possessed  by  tLu.  v,  who, 
not  remembering  the  delightful  peculiarities  of  their  daily 
manners,  can  only  form  imperfect  ideas,  of  what  they 
were.  Before  bidding  them  a  last  adieu,  we  may  be 
allowed  to  linger  a  little  longer,  and  survey  their  charac- 
ters by  the  new  and  solemn  lights  which  are  now,  for  the 
first  time,  fully  cast  upon  them. 


LAMB   FULLY   KNOWN.  309 

Except  to  the  few  who  were  acquainted  with  the  tragical 
occurrences  of  Lamb's  earlj  life,  some  of  his  peculiarities 
seemed  strange — to  be  forgiven,  indeed,  to  the  excellences 
of  his  nature,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  genius — but  still, 
in  themselves,  as  much  to  be  wondered  at  as  deplored. 
The  sweetness  of  his  character,  breathed  through  his 
writings,  was  felt  even  by  strangers ;  but  its  heroic  aspect 
was  unguessed,  even  by  many  of  his  friends.  Let  them 
now  consider  it,  and  ask  if  the  annals  of  self-sacrifice  can 
show  anj^thing  in  human  action  and  endurance  more  lovely 
than  its  self-devotion  exhibits !  It  was  not  merely  that 
he  saw  (which  his  elder  brother  cannot  be  blamed  for  not 
immediately  perceiving)  through  the  unsanguined  cloud 
of  misfortune  which  had  fallen  upon  his  family,  the  un- 
stained excellence  of  his  sister,  whose  madness  had  caused 
it ;  that  he  was  ready  to  take  her  to  his  own  home  with 
reverential  affection,  and  cherish  her  through  life ;  that 
he  gave  up,  for  her  sake,  all  meaner  and  more  selfish  love, 
and  all  the  hopes  "which  youth  blends  with  the  passion 
which  disturbs  and  ennobles  it :  not  even  that  he  did  all 
this  cheerfully,  and  without  pluming  himself  upon  his 
brotherly  nobleness  as  a  virtue,  or  seeking  to  repay  him- 
self (as  some  uneasy  martyrs  do)  by  small  instalments  of 
long  repining — but  that  lie  carried  the  spirit  of  the  hour 
in  which  he  first  knew  and  took  his  course,  to  his  last.  So 
far  from  thinking  that  his  sacrifice  of  youth  and  love  to 
his  sister  gave  him  a  license  to  follow  his  own  caprice  at 
the  expense  of  her  feelings,  even  in  the  lightest  matters, 
he  always  wrote  and  spoke  of  her  as  his  wiser  self;  his 
generous  benefactress,  of  whose  protecting  care  he  was 
scarcely  worthy.  How  his  pen  almost  grew  wanton  in  her 
praise,  even  when  she  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Asylum  after 
the  fatal  attack  of  lunacy,  his  letters  of  the  time  to  Cole- 


310  LAMB   FULLY    KNOWN. 

ridge  show  ;  but  that  might  have  been  a  mere  temporary 
exaltation — the  attendant  fervor  of  a  great  exigency  and 
a  great  resolution.  It  was  not  so  ;  nine  years  afterwards 
(1805),  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Wordsworth,  he  thus  dilates  on 
his  sister's  excellences,  and  exaggerates  his  own  frailties : — 

"  To  say  all  that  I  know  of  her  would  be  more  than  I 
think  anybody  could  believe  or  even  understand  ;  and 
when  I  hope  to  have  her  well  again  with  me,  it  would  be 
sinning  against  her  feelings  to  go  about  to  praise  her ;  for 
I  can  conceal  nothing  that  I  do  from  her.  She  is  older, 
and  wiser,  and  better  than  I,  and  all  my  wretched  imper- 
fections I  cover  to  myself  by  resolutely  thinking  on  her 
goodness.  She  would  share  life  and  death,  heaven  and 
hell,  with  me.  She  lives  but  for  n^e  ;  and  I  know  I  have 
been  wasting  and  teasing  her  life  for  five  years  past  inces- 
santly with  my  cursed  ways  of  going  on.  But  even  in 
this  upbraiding  of  myself  I  am  offending  against  her,  for 
I  know  that  she  has  cleaved  to  me  for  better,  for  worse; 
and  if  the  balance  has  been  against  her  hitherto,  it  '  was 
a  noble  trade.'  " 

Let  it  also  be  remembered  that  this  devotion  of  the 
entire  nature  was  not  exercised  merely  in  the  conscious* 
ness  of  a  past  tragedy;  but  during  the  frequent  recur- 
rences of  the  calamity  which  caused  it,  and  the  constant 
apprehension  of  its  terrors  ;  and  this  for  a  large  portion 
of  life,  in  poor  lodgings,  where  the  brother  and  sister  were, 
or  fancied  themselves,  "marked  people;"  where  from  an 
income  incapable  of  meeting  the  expense  of  the  sorrow 
without  sedulous  privations,  he  contrived  to  hoard,  not  for 
holiday  enjoyment,  or  future  solace,  but  to  provide  for 
expected  distress.     Of  the  misery  attendant  on  this  anti* 


LAMB   FULLY   KNOWN.  311 

cipation,  aggravated  by  jealous  fears  lest  some  imprudence 
or  error  of  his  own  sliould  have  hastened  the  inevitable 
evil,  Ave  have  a  glimpse  in  the  letter  to  Miss  Wordsworth 
above  quoted,  and  which  seems  to  have  been  written  in 
reply  to  one  which  that  excellent  lady  had  addressed  to 
Miss  Lamb,  and  which  had  fallen  into  the  brother's  care 
during  one  of  her  sad  absences. 

"  Your  long  kind  letter  has  not  been  thrown  away,  but 
poor  Mary,  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  cannot  yet  relish  it. 
She  has  been  attacked  by  one  of  her  severe  illnesses,  and 
is  at  present /rom  home.  Last  Monday  week  was  the  day 
she  left  me ;  and  I  hope  I  may  calculate  upon  having  her 
again  in  a  month  or  little  more.  I  am  rather  afraid  late 
hours  have,  in  this  case,  contributed  to  her  indisposition. 
But  when  she  begins  to  discover  symptoms  of  approaching 
illness,  it  is  not  easv  to  sav  what  is  best  to  do.  Beins:  bv 
ourselves  is  bad,  and  going  out  is  bad.  I  get  so  irritable 
and  wretched  with  fear,  that  I  constantly  hasten  on  the  disor- 
der. You  cannot  conceive  the  misery  of  such  a  foresight. 
I  am  sure  that,  for  the  week  before  she  left  me,  I  was  lit- 
tle better  than  lightheaded.  I  now  am  calm,  but  sadly 
taken  down  and  ilat.  I  have  every  reason  to  suppose  that 
this  illness,  like  all  her  former  ones,  will  l)e  but  temporary. 
But  I  cannot  always  feel  so.  Meantime  she  is  dead  to 
me !" 

The  constant  impendency  of  this  giant  sorrow  saddened 
to  "the  Lambs"  even  their  holidays;  as  the  journey 
which  they  both  regarded  as  the  relief  and  charm  of  the 
year  was  frequently  f'dlowed  Ijy  a  seizure  ;  and,  when  they 
ventured  to  take  it,  a  sti'ait-waistcoat,  carefully  packed  by 
Miss  Lamb  herself,  was  their  constant  companion.     Sad 


312  LAMB   FULLY   KNOWN. 

experience,  ut  last,  induced  the  abandonment  of  tiie  annuai 
excursion,  and  Lamb  was  contented  with  walks  in  and  near 
London,  during  the  interval  of  labor.  Miss  Lamb  experi- 
enced, and  full  well  understood  premonitory  symptoms  of 
the  attack,  in  restlessness,  low  fever,  and  the  inability  to 
sleep  ;  and,  as  gently  as  possible,  prepared  her  brother  for 
the  duty  he  must  soon  perform  ;  and  thus,  unless  he  could 
stave  off  the  terrible  separation  till  Sunday,  obliged  him  to 
ask  leave  of  absence  from  the  office  as  if  for  a  day's  plea- 
sure— a  bitter  mockery!  On  one  occasion  Mr.  Charles 
Lloyd  met  them,  slowly  pacing  together  a  little  footpath 
in  Hoxton  fields,  both  weeping  bitterly,  and  found,  on  join- 
ing them,  that  they  were  taking  their  solemn  way  to  the 
accustomed  Asylum  ! 

Will  any  one,  acquainted  with  these  secret  passages  of 
Lamb's  history,  wonder  that,  with  a  strong  physical  in- 
clination for  the  stimulus  and  support  of  strong  drinks — • 
which  man  is  framed  moderately  to  rejoice  in — he  should 
snatch  some  wild  pleasure  "  between  the  acts"  (as  he  called 
them)  "of  his  distressful  drama,"  and  that,  still  more, 
during  the  loneliness  of  the  solitude  created  by  his  sister's 
absences,  he  should  obtain  the  solace  of  an  hour's  feverish 
dream  ?  That,  notwithstanding  that  frailty,  he  performed 
the  duties  of  his  hard  lot  with  exemplary  steadiness  and 
discretion  is  indeed  wonderful — especially  when  it  is  recol- 
lected that  he  had  himself  been  visited,  when  in  the  dawn 
of  manhood,  with  his  sister's  malady,  the  seeds  of  Avhich 
were  lurking  in  his  frame.  While  that  natural  predispo- 
sition may  explain  an  occasional  flightiness  of  expression 
on  serious  matters,  fruit  of  some  wayward  fancy,  which 
flitted  through  his  brain,  without  disturbing  his  constant 
reason  or  reaching  his  heart,  and  some  little  extravagances 
of  fitful  mirth,  how  does  it  heighten  the  moral  courage  by 


LAMB   FULLY   KNOWN.  313 

whicli  the  disease  was  controlled  and  the  severest  duties 
performed  !  Never  surely  was  there  a  more  striking  ex- 
ample of  tlic  power  of  a  virtuous,  rather  say,  of  a  pious, 
wish  to  conquer  the  fiery  suggestions  of  latent  insanity 
than  that  presentf^d  by  Lamb's  history.  Nervous,  tremu- 
lous, as  he  seemed — so  slight  of  frame  that  he  looked  only 
fit  for  the  most  placid  fortune — when  the  dismal  emergen- 
cies which  chequered  his  life  arose,  he  acted  with  as  much 
promptitude  and  vigor  as  if  he  had  never  penned  a  stanza 
nor  taken  a  glass  too  much,  or  was  strung  with  herculean 
sinews.  None  of  those  temptations,  in  which  misery  is  the 
most  potent,  to  hazard  a  lavish  expenditure  for  an  enjoy- 
ment to  be  secured  against  fate  and  fortune,  ever  tempted 
him  to  exceed  his  income,  when  scantiest,  by  a  shilling. 
He  had  always  a  reserve  for  poor  Mary's  periods  of  seclu- 
sion, and  something  in  hand  besides  for  a  friend  in  need ; 
— and  on  his  retirement  from  the  India  House,  he  had 
amassed,  by  annual  savings,  a  sufficient  sum  (invested  af- 
ter the  prudent  and  classical  taste  of  Lord  Stowell,  in  "  the 
elegant  simplicity  of  the  Three  per  Cents.")  to  secure  com- 
fort to  Miss  Lamb,  when  his  pension  should  cease  with 
him,  even  if  the  India  Company,  his  great  employei'S,  had 
not  acted  nobly  by  the  memory  of  their  inspired  clerk — as 
they  did — and  gave  her  the  annuity  to  Avhich  a  wife  would 
have  been  entitled — but  of  which  he  could  not  feel  assured. 
Living  among  literary  men,  some  less  distinguished  and 
less  discreet  than  those  whom  we  have  mentioned,  he  was 
constantly  importuned  to  relieve  distresses  whicli  ;in  im- 
provident speculation  in  literature  produces,  and  whicli  the 
recklessness  attendant  on  the  empty  vanity  of  self  exagge- 
i-ated  talent  renih-rs  <lesperate  and  merciless  ; — and  to  the 
importunities  of  sueli  hopeless  petitioners  he  gave  too 
largely — though  he  used  sometimes  to  express  a  painful 
27 


3W:  LAMB    FULLY   KNOWN, 

sense  that  he  was  dhninishing  his  own  store  Avithoiit  con- 
ferring any  real  benefit.  "Heaven,"  he  used  to  say, 
"  does  not  OAve  me  sixpence  for  all  I  have  given,  or  lent  (as 
they  call  it)  to  such  importunity  ;  I  only  gave  it  because  I 
could  not  bear  to  refuse  it ;  and  I  have  done  good  by  my 
weakness."  On  the  other  hand,  he  used  to  seek  out  occa- 
sions of  devoting  a  part  of  his  surplus  to  those  of  his  friends 
whom  he  believed  it  would  really  serve,  and  almost  forced 
loans,  or  gifts  in  the  disguise  of  loans,  upon  them.  If  he 
thought  one,  in  such  a  position,  would  be  the  happier  for 
501.  or  100^.,  he  would  carefully  procure  a  note  for  the 
sum,  and,  perhaps,  for  days  before  he  might  meet  the  ob- 
ject of  his  friendly  purpose,  keep  the  note  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  burning  in  it  to  be  produced,  and,  when  the  occa- 
sion arrived — "in  the  sweet  of  the  night" — he  would  crumple 
it  up  in  his  hand  and  stammer  out  his  difficulty  of  dispos- 
ing of  a  little  money  ;  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do  Avith  it — 
pray  take  it — pray  use  it — you  Avill  do  me  a  kindness  if 
you  Avill" — he  would  say ;  and  it  was  hard  to  disoblige 
him  !  Let  any  one  who  has  been  induced  to  regard  Lamb 
as  a  poor,  slight,  excitable,  and  excited  being,  consider 
that  such  acts  as  these  were  not  infrequent — that  he  exer- 
cised hospitality  of  a  substantial  kind,  without  stint,  all 
his  life — that  he  spared  no  expense  for  the  comfort  of  his 
sister,  there  only  lavish— and  that  he  died  leaving  sufiicient 
to  accomplish  all  his  wishes  for  survivors — and  think  what 
the  sturdy  quality  of  his  goodness  must  have  been  amidst 
all  the  heart-aches  and  head-aches  of  his  life — and  ask  the 
virtue  which  has  been  supported  by  strong  nerves,  whether 
it  has  often  produced  any  good  to  match  it  ? 

The  influence  of  the  events  now  disclosed  may  be  traced 
in  the  development  and  direction  of  Lamb's  faculties 
and  tastes,  and  in  the  wild  contrasts  of  expression  which 


LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN.  315 

sometimes  startled  strangers.  The  literarj  preferences 
disclosed  in  bis  earlj  letters,  are  often  inclined  to  the  su- 
perficial in  poetry  and  thought — the  theology  of  Priestley, 
though  embraced  with  pious  earnestness — the  "  divine  chit- 
chat" of  Cowper — the  melodious  sadness  of  Bowles  ;  and 
his  own  style,  breathing  a  graceful  and  modest  sweetness, 
is  without  any  decided  character.  But  by  the  terrible 
realities  of  his  experience,  he  was  turned  to  seek  a  kindred 
interest  in  the  "sterner  stuff"'  of  old  traged}^ — to  catas- 
trophes more  fearful  even  than  his  own — to  the  aspects  of 
"  pale  passion" — to  shapes  of  heroic  daring  and  more  he- 
roic suffering — to  the  agonising  contests  of  opposing  affec- 
tions, and  the  victories  of  the  soul  over  calamity  and  death, 
which  the  old  English  drama  discloses,  and  in  the  contem- 
plation of  which  he  saw  his  own  suffering  nature  at  once 
mirrored  and  exalted.  Thus  instead  of  admiring,  as  ho 
once  admired,  E,owe  and  Otway,  even  Massinger  seemed 
too  declamatory  to  satisfy  him  ;  in  Ford,  Decker,  Marlowe 
and  Webster,  be  found  the  most  awful  struo-o-lcs  of  affcc- 
tion,  and  the  "  sad  embroidery"  of  fancy-streaked  grief, 
and  expressed  his  kindred  feelings  in  those  little  quintes- 
sences of  criticism  Avhich  are  appended  to  the  noblest 
scenes  in  his  "  Specimens ;"  and,  seeking  auiidst  the  sun- 
nier and  more  varied  world  of  Shakspeare  fur  the  pro- 
foundcst  and  most  earnest  passion  developed  there,  ob- 
tained that  marvellous  insight  into  the  soul  of  Lear  which 
gives  to  his  presentment  of  its  riches  almost  the  character 
of  creation.  On  the  otluu-  liarid,  it  was  congenial  pastime 
with  him  to  levci  in  the  ojijtosite  excellences  of  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  who  clianged  the  domain  of  tr-.igedy  into 
fairy-land  ;  turned  all  its  terror  and  its  sorrow  "to  favor 
and  to  prettincss ;"  shed  the  rainbow  hues  of  sportive  fiiiicy 
with  equal  hand  among  tyrants  and  viciiins,  the  dcvoLed 


316  LAMB    FULLY    KNOWN. 

and  the  faithless,  suffering  and  joy  ;  represented  the  beauty 
of  goodness  as  a  happy  accident,  vice  as  a  wayward  aber- 
ration, and  invoked  the  remorse  of  a  moment  to  chanire 
them  as  with  a  harlequin's  wand  ;  unrealised  the  terrible, 
and  left  "nothing  serious  in  mortality,"  but  reduced  the 
struggle  of  life  to  a  glittering  and  heroic  game  to  be  played 
splendidly  out,  and  quitted  without  a  sigh.  But  neither 
Lamb's  own  secret  griefs,  nor  the  tastes  which  they  nur- 
tured, ever  shook  his  faith  in  the  requisitions  of  duty,  or 
induced  him  to  dally  with  that  moral  paradox  to  wliich 
near  acquaintance  with  the  great  errors  of  mighty  natures 
is  sometimes  a  temptation.  Never,  either  in  writing  or 
in  speech  did  he  purposely  confound  good  with  evil.  For 
the  new  theories  of  morals  which  gleamed  out  in  the  con- 
versation of  some  of  his  friends,  he  had  no  sympathy  ;  and, 
though  in  his  boundless  indulgence  to  the  perversities  and 
faults  of  those  whom  long  familiarity  had  endeared  to  him, 
he  did  not  suffer  their  frailties  to  impair  his  attachment  to 
the  individuals,  he  never  palliated  the  frailties  themselves  ; 
still  less  did  he  emblazon  them  as  virtues. 

No  one,  acquainted  with  Lamb's  story,  will  wonder  at 
the  eccentric  wildness  of  his  mirth — his  violent  changes 
from  the  serious  to  the  farcical — the  sudden  reliefs  of  the 
"  heat-oppressed  brain,"  and  heart  weighed  down  by  the 
sense  of  ever-impending  sorrow.  His  whim,  however, 
almost  always  bordered  on  wisdom.  It  was  justly  said  of 
him  by  Ilazlitt,  "  His  serious  conversation,  like  his  seri- 
ous writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever  stammered  out  such 
fine,  piquant,  deep,  eloquent  things  in  half-a-dozen  half  sen- 
tences ;  his  jests  scald  like  tears,  and  he  jjrobes  a  ques- 
tion with  a  play  on  words." 

Although  Lamb's  conversation  vibrated  between  the  in- 
tense  and  the  grotesque,  Ids  writings  are  replete  with 


LAMB   FULLY   KNOWN.  317 

quiet  pictures  of  the  humbler  scenery  of  middle  life, 
touched  with  a  graceful  and  loving  hand.  We  may  trace 
in  them  the  experience  of  a  nature  bred  up  in  slender  cir- 
cumstances, but  imbued  with  a  certain  innate  spirit  of 
gentility  suggesting  a  respect  for  all  its  moderate  appli- 
ances and  unambitious  pleasures.  The  same  spirit  per- 
vaded all  his  own  domestic  arrangements,  so  that  the  in- 
tensity of  his  affliction  was  ameliorated  by  as  much  comfort 
as  satisfaction  in  the  outward  furniture  of  life  can  give  to 
slender  fortune. 

The  most  important  light,  however,  shed  on  Lamb's  in- 
tellectual life  by  a  knowledge  of  his  true  history,  is  that 
which  elucidates  the  change  from  vivid  religious  impres- 
sions, manifested  in  his  earlier  letters,  to  an  apparent  in- 
difference towards  immortal  interests  and  celestial  rela- 
tions, which  he  confesses  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Walter  Wilson.* 
The  truth  is,  not  that  he  became  an  unbeliever,  or  even  a 
sceptic,  but  that  the  peculiar  disasters  in  which  he  was 
plunged,  and  the  tendency  of  his  nature  to  seek  immedi- 
ate solaces,  induced  an  habitual  reluctance  to  look  boldly 
into  futurity.  That  conjugal  love,  which  anticipates  with 
far-looking  eye  prolonged  existence  in  posterity,  was  de- 
nied to  his  self-sacrifice ;  irksome  labor  wearied  out  tho 
heart  of  his  days ;  and  over  his  small  household.  Mad- 
ness, like  Death  in  tlie  vision  of  Milton,  continually 
"shook  its  dart,"  and  only,  at  the  best,  "delayed  to 
strike."  Not  daring  to  look  onward,  even  for  a  little 
month,  he  acquired  the  habitual  sense  of  living  entirely 
in  the  present ;  enjoying  with  tremulous  /est  the  security 
of  the  moment,  and  making  some  genial,  but  sad,  amends 
for  the  want  of  all   the  perspective  of  life,  by  cleaving, 

*  I'nge  lOL 
27* 


318  LAMB    FULLY    KNOV.'N. 

with  fondness,  to  its  nearest  objects,  and  becoming  at 
tacbed  to  them,  even  when  least  interesting  in  themselves. 
This  perpetual  grasping  at  transient  relief  from  the 
minute  and  vivid  present,  associated  Lamb's  affections  in- 
timately and  closely  with  the  small  details  of  daily  exist- 
ence; these  became  to  him  the  "jutting  frieze"  and 
"  coigne  of  vantage"  in  which  his  home-bred  fancy  "made 
its  bed  and  procrcant  cradle;"  these  became  imbued  with 
his  thoughts,  and  echoed  back  to  him  old  feelings  and  old 
loves,  till  his  inmost  soul  shivered  at  the  prospect  of  being 
finally  wrenched  from  them.  Enthralled  thus  in  the  prison 
of  an  earthly  home,  he  became  perplexed  and  bewildered 
at  the  idea  of  an  existence  which,  though  holier  and  hap- 
pier, would  doubtless  be  entirely  different  from  that  to 
which  he  was  bound  by  so  many  delicate  films  of  custom. 
"Ah !"  he  would  say,  "we  shall  have  none  of  these  little 
passages  of  this  life  hereafter — none  of  our  little  quarrels 
and  makings-up — no  questionings  about  sixpence  at  whist ;" 
and,  thus  repelled,  he  clung  more  closely  to  "  the  bright 
minutes"  which  he  strung  "on  the  thread  of  keen  domes- 
tic anfruish  ! "  It  is  this  intense  feelino;  of  the  "  nice  re- 
gards  of  flesh  and  blood;"  this  dwelling  in  pretty  felici 
ties  ;  which  makes  us,  apart  from  religious  fears,  unAvilling 
to  die.  Small  associations  make  death  terrible,  because 
we  know,  that  parting  with  this  life,  we  part  from  their 
company ;  whereas  great  thoughts  make  death  less  fear- 
ful, because  we  feel  that  they  will  be  our  companions  in 
all  worlds,  and  link  our  future  to  our  present  being  in  all 
ages.  Such  thoughts  assuredly  were  not  dead  in  a  heart 
like  Lamb's  ;  they  were  only  veiled  by  the  nearer  presen- 
ces of  famili;ir  objects,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  bursting 
in  upon  him  in  all  their  majesty,  produced  those  startling 
references   to   sacred   things,  in  which,  though  not  to  be 


LAMB   I'ULLY   KNOWX.  319 

quoted  with  approval,  there  was  no  conscious  profaaeness, 
but  rather  a  wayward,  fitful,  disturbed  piety.  If,  indeed, 
when  borne  beyond  the  present,  he  sought  to  linger  in  the 
past ;  to  detect  among  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  antiquitv, 
beauty,  which  had  lurked  there  from  old  time,  rather  than 
to  "  rest  and  expatiate  in  a  life  to  come,"  no  anti-christian 
sentiment  spread  its  chillness  over  his  spirit.  The  shrink- 
ing into  mortal  life  was  but  the  weakness  of  a  nature  which 
shed  the  sweetness  of  the  religion  of  its  youth  through 
the  sorrows  and  the  snatches  of  enjoyment  which  crowded 
his  after  years,  and  only  feebly  perceived  its  final  glories, 
which,  w^e  may  humbly  hope,  its  immortal  part  is  now  en- 

Shortl}'"  before  his  death,  Lamb  had  borrowed  of  Mr. 
Gary,  Phillips's  "  Theatrum  Poetarum  Anglicanorum," 
which,  when  returned  by  Mr.  Moxon,  after  the  event,  was 
found  with  the  leaf  folded  down  at  the  accoun.t  of  Sir 
Philip  Sydney.  Its  receipt  was  acknowledged  by  the  fol- 
lowing lines : — 

"  So  should  it  be,  my  gentle  friend ; 

Thy  leaf  last  closed  at  Sydney's  end. 

Thou,  too,  like  Sydney  wouliist  have  given 

The  water,  thirsting  and  near  heaven ; 

Nay,  were  it  wine,  filleil  to  the  brini, 
'Thou  hadiit  looked  hard,  but  given,  like  him. 


And  art  tliou  mingled  tlicn  among 
Those  famous  sons  of  aneiont  song? 
And  do  they  gather  round,  and  praise 
Thy  relish  of  their  noljlor  lays  ? 
Waxing  in  mirth  to  hear  thoi?  tell 
With  what  strange  mortals  thou  didst  dwell; 
At  thy  quaint  sallies  more  delighted, 
Than  any's  long  among  them  lighted  1 


320  MART   LAMB. 

'Tis  done:  and  thou  hast  joined  a  crew, 
To  whom  thy  soul  was  justly  due  ; 
And  yet  I  think,  where'er  thou  be, 
They'll  scarcely  love  thee  more  than  we."* 

Little  could  anyone,  observing  Miss  Lamb  in  the  habit- 
ual serenity  of  her  demeanor,  guess  the  calamity  in  which 
she  had  partaken,  or  the  malady  which  frightfully  cheq- 
ured  her  life.  From  Mr.  Lloyd,  who,  although  saddened 
by  impending  delusion,  was  always  found  accurate  in  his 
recollection  of  long  past  events  and  conversations,  I 
learned  that  she  had  described  herself,  on  her  recovery 
from  the  fatal  attack,  as  having  experienced,  while  it  was 
subsiding,  sucli  a  conviction  that  she  was  absolved  in 
heaven  from  all  taint  of  the  deed  in  which  she  had  been 
the  agent — such  an  assurance  that  it  Avas  a  dispensation 
of  Providence  for  good,  though  so  terrible — such  a  sense, 
that  her  mother  knew  her  entire  innocence,  and  shed  down 
blessings  upon  her,  as  though  she  had  seen  the  reconcile- 
ment in  solemn  vision — that  she  was  not  sorely  afflicted 
by  the  recollection.  It  was  as  if  the  old  Greek  notion, 
of  the  necessity  for  the  unconscious  shedder  of  blood,  else 
polluted  though  guiltless,  to  pass  through  a  religious  puri- 
fication, had,  in  her  case,  been  happily  accomplished ;  so 
that,  not  only  was  she  without  remorse,  but  without  other 
sorrow  than  attends  on  the  death  of  an  infirm  parent  in  a 
good  old  age.  She  never  shrank  from  alluding  to  her 
mother,  when  any  topic  connected  Avith  her  own  youth 
made  such  a  reference,  in  ordinary  respects,  natural;  but 
spoke  of  her  as  though  no  fearful  remembrance  was  asso- 

*  These  lines,  characteristic  both  of  the  writer  and  the  subject,  are  copied 
from  the  Memoir  of  the  translator  of  Dante,  by  his  son,  tlie  Rev.  Henry  Gary, 
which,  enriched  by  many  interesting  memorials  of  contemporaries,  presents 
as  valuable  a  picture  of  rare  ability  and  excellence  as  ever  was  'raced  by  tha 
fine  observation  of  filial  love. 


MART   LAMB.  321 

ciated  with  the  image ;  so  that  some  of  her  most  intimate 
friends,  who  knew  of  tne  disaster,  believed  that  she  had 
never  become  aware  of  her  own  share  in  its  horrors.  It 
is  still  more  sincrular  that,  in  the  wanderinirs  of  her  in- 
sanity,  amidst  all  the  vast  throngs  of  imagery  she  pre- 
sented of  her  early  days,  this  picture  never  recurred,  or, 
if  ever,  not  associated  with  shapes  of  terror. 

Miss  Lamb  would  have  been  remarkable  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  disposition,  the  clearness  of  her  understand- 
ing, and  the  gentle  wisdom  of  all  her  acts  and  words, 
even  if  these  qualities  had  not  been  presented  in  maxvel- 
lous  contrast  with  the  distraction  under  which  she  suifered 
for  weeks,  latterly  for  months,  in  every  year.  There  was 
no  tinge  of  insanity  discernible  in  her  manner  to  the  most 
observant  eye ;  not  even  in  those  distressful  periods  when 
the  premonitory  symptoms  had  apprised  her  of  its  ap- 
proach, and  she  was  making  preparations  for  seclusion. 
In  all  its  essential  sweetness,  her  character  was  like  her 
brother's ;  while  by  a  temper  more  placid,  a  spirit  of  en- 
joyment more  serene,  she  was  enabled  to  guide,  to  coun- 
sel, to  cheer  him,  and  to  protect  him  on  the  verge  of  the 
mysterious  calamity,  from  the  depths  of  which  she  rose 
80  often  unruffled  to  his  side.  To  a  friend  in  any  difEculty 
she  was  the  most  comfortable  of  advisors,  the  wisest  of 
consolers.  Ilazlitt  used  to  say,  that  he  never  met  ^^^tll  a 
woman  who  could  reason,  and  had  met  with  only  one 
thoroughly  reasonable — the  sole  exception  being  Mary 
Lamb.  She  did  not  wish,  however,  to  be  made  an  excep- 
tion, to  a  general  disparagement  of  her  sex  ;  for  in  all  her 
thoughts  and  feelings  she  was  most  womanly — keeping, 
under  even  undue  subordination,  to  her  notion  of  a  wo- 
man's province,  intellect  of  rare  excellence,  which  flashed 
out  when  the  restraints  of  gentle  habit  and  humble  man- 


322  MARY   LAMB. 

ner  were  withdrawn  by  the  terrible  force  of  disease. 
Though  her  conversation  in  sanity  was  never  marked  by 
smartness  or  repartee,  seldom  rising  beyond  that  of  a  sen- 
sible quiet  gentlewoman  appreciating  and  enjoying  the 
talents  of  her  friends,  it  was  otherwise  in  her  madness. 
Lamb,  in  his  letter  to  a  female  friend,  announcing  his  de- 
termination to  be  entirely  with  her,  speaks  of  her  pouring 
out  memories  of  all  the  events  and  persons  of  her  younger 
days ;  but  he  docs  not  mention,  what  I  am  able  from  re- 
peated experiences  to  add,  that  her  ramblings  often  spar- 
kled with  brilliant  description  and  shattered  beauty.  She 
would  fancy  herself  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne  or  George 
the  First,  and  describe  the  brocaded  dames  and  courtly 
manners  as  though  she  had  been  bred  amon";  them,  in  the 
best  style  of  the  old  comedy.  It  was  all  broken  and  dis- 
jointed, so  that  the  hearer  could  remember  little  of  her 
discourse  ;  but  the  fragments  were  like  the  jewelled 
speeches  of  Congreve,  only  shaken  from  their  setting. 
There  was  sometimes  even  a  vein  of  crazy  logic  running 
through  them,  associating  things  essentially  most  dissimi- 
lar, but  connecting  them  by  a  verbal  association  in  strange 
order.  As  a  mere  physical  instance  of  deranged  intellect, 
her  condition  was,  I  believe,  extraordinary ;  it  was  as  if 
the  finest  elements  of  mind  had  been  shaken  into  fantas- 
tic combinations  like  those  of  a  kaleidoscope ; — but  not 
for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  a  curious  phenomenon  of 
mental  aberration  as  the  aspects  of  her  insanity  unveiled, 
but  to  illustrate  the  moral  force  of  gentleness  by  which 
the  faculties  that  thus  sparkled  when  restraining  wisdom 
was  mthdrawn,  were  subjected  to  its  swa}',  in  her  periods 
of  reason. 

The  following  letter  from  ^liss  Lamb  to  Miss  Words- 
worth, on  one  of  the  chief  external  events  of  Lamb's  his- 


MARY    LAMB.  3'23 

torj,  tlie  removal  from  the  Temple  to  Covent  Garden,  will 
illustrate  the  cordial  and  womanly  strain  of  her  observa- 
tion on  the  occurrences  of  daily  life,  and  afford  a  good 
idea  of  her  habitual  conversation  among  her  friends. 

"  jMy  dear  Miss  Wordsworth. — Your  kind  letter  has 
given  us  very  great  pleasure,  the  sight  of  your  hand- 
writing was  a  most  welcome  surprise  to  us.  We  have 
heard  good  tidings  of  you  by  all  our  friends  who  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  visit  you  this  summer,  and  rejoice  to  see 
it  confirmed  by  yourself.  You  have  quite  the  advantage, 
in  volunteering  a  letter ;  there  is  no  merit  in  replying  to 
so  welcome  a  stranger. 

"  We  have  left  the  Temple.  I  think  you  Avill  be  sorry 
to  hear  this.  I  know  I  have  never  been  so  well  satisfied 
with  thinking  of  you  at  Rydal  Mount,  as  when  I  could 
connect  the  idea  of  you  with  your  own  Grasmere  Cottage. 
Our  rooms  were  dirty  and  out  of  repair,  and  the  incon- 
veniences of  living  in  chambers  became  every  year  more 
irksome,  and  so,  at  last,  we  mustered  up  resolution  enough 
to  leave  the  good  old  place,  that  so  long  had  sheltered  us, 
and  here  we  are,  living  at  a  brazier's  shop,  No.  20,  in 
Russel-street,  Covent-gardcn,  a  place  all  alive  with  noise 
and  bustle ;  Drury-lane  Theatre  in  sight  from  our  front, 
and  Covent-gardcn  from  our  back  windows.  The  hubbub 
of  the  carriages  returning  from  the  play  does  not  annoy 
me  in  the  least ;  strange  that  it  does  not,  for  it  is  quite 
tremendous.  I  quite  enjoy  looking  out  of  the  window, 
and  listening  to  the  calling  up  of  the  carringes,  and  the 
squabbles  of  the  coachmen  and  liidcboys.  It  is  the  oddest 
scene  to  look  down  upon ;  I  am  sure  you  would  be  amused 
with  it.  It  is  well  I  am  in  a  cheerful  ])lace,  or  I  should 
have  many  misgivings  about  leaving  the  Temple.     I  look 


324  MART  LAMB. 

forward  with  great  pleasure  to  tlie  prospect  of  seeing  m;^ 

good  friend,  Miss  Hutchinson.     I  wish  llydal  Mount,  with 

all  its  inhabitants  enclosed,  were  to  be  transplanted  with  her, 

and  to  remain  stationary  in  the  midst  of  Covent-garden. 
****** 

"  Charles  has  had  all  his  Hogarths  bound  in  a  book ; 
they  were  sent  home  yesterday,  and  now  that  I  have  them 
altogether,  and  perceive  the  advantage  of  peeping  close  at 
them  through  my  spectacles,  I  am  reconciled  to  the  loss 
of  them  hanging  round  the  room,  which  has  been  a  great 
mortification  to  me — in  vain  I  tried  to  console  myself  with 
looking  at  our  neAv  chairs  and  carpets,  for  we  have  got 
new  chairs,  and  carpets  covering  all  over  our  two  sitting- 
i-Qoms ;  I  missed  my  old  friends,  and  could  not  be  com- 
forted— then  I  would  resolve  to  learn  to  look  out  of  the 
window,  a  habit  I  never  could  attain  in  my  life,  and  I  have 
given  it  up  as  a  thing  quite  impracticable — yet  when  I  was 
at  Brighton,  last  summer,  the  first  week  I  never  took  my 
eyes  ofi"  from  the  sea,  not  even  to  look  in  a  book :  I  had 

not  seen  the  sea  for  sixteen  years.     Mrs.  M ,  who  was 

with  us,  kept  her  liking,  and  continued  her  seat  in  the 
window  till  the  very  last,  while  Charles  and  I  played 
truants,  and  wandered  among  the  hills,  which  we  magnified 
into  little  mountains,  and  almost  as  good  as  Westmoreland 
scenery :  certainly  we  made  discoveries  of  many  pleasant 
walks,  which  few  of  the  Brighton  visitors  have  ever 
di-eamed  of — for  like  as  is  the  case  in  the  neiglib-'rhood 
of  London,  after  the  first  two  or  three  miles  we  ^s^.■ie  sure 
to  find  ourselves  in  a  perfect  solitude.  I  hope  we  shall 
meet  before  the  walking  faculties  of  either  of  us  fail ;  you 
flay  you  can  walk  fifteen  miles  with  ease ;  that  is  exactly 
my  stint,  and  more  fatigues  me  ;  four  or  five  miles  every 
third  or  fourth  day,  keeping  very  quiet  between,  was  all 
Mrs.  M could  accomplish. 


MARY    LAMli.  325 

"  God  bless  you  and  yours.     Love  to  all  and  each  one. 
"  I  am  ever  yours  most  affectionately, 

"M.  Lamb" 

Of  that  deeper  veui  of  sentiment  in  Mary  Lamb,  sel- 
dom revealed,  the  following  passages  from  a  letter  to  the 
same  lady,  referring  to  the  death  of  a  brother  of  her  be- 
loved correspondent,  maybe  offered  as  a  companion  speci- 
men. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Wordsworth. — I  thank  you,  my  kinc\ 
friend,  for  your  most  comfortable  letter;  till  I  saw  your 
own  handwriting  I  could  not  persuade  myself  that  I  should 
do  well  to  Avrite  to  you,  though  I  have  often  attempted  it; 
but  I  always  left  off  dissatisfied  with  what  I  had  written, 
and  feeling  that  I  was  doing  an  improper  thing  to  intrude 
upon  your  sorrow.     I  wished  to  tell  you  that  you  would 
one  day  feel  the  kind  of  peaceful  state  of  mind  and  sweet 
memory  of  the  dead,  which  you  so  happily  describe  as 
now  almost  begun ;  but  I  felt  that  it  was  improper,  and 
most  grating  to  the  feelings  of  the  afflicted,  to  say  to  them 
that  the  memoi'y  of  their  affection  Avould  in  time  become 
a  constant  part,  not  only  of  their  dream,  but  of  their  most 
wakeful  sense  of  happiness.     Tiiat  you  would  see  every 
object  with  and  through  your  lost  brother,  and  that  that 
would  at  last  become  a  real    and  everlasting  source  of 
comfort  to  you,  I  felt,  and  well  knew,  from  my  own  ex- 
perience in  sorrow;  but   till  you  yourself  liegau   to  i\v\ 
this  I  did  not  dare  tell  you  so;  but  I  scud  you  some  poor 
lines  which   I  Avrote  under   this   convictinu   of  miinl,   und 
before  I   heard    Coleridge  was   returning    Ikiuu'.      I   wili 
transcribe  them  now,  before  I  finish  my  letter,  lest  a  false 
shame  prevent  me  then,  for  I  know  they  are  much  wordt; 
28 


S26  LAST    EAKTIILY    REMAINS. 

than  they  ought  to  be,  written,  as  they  were,  with  strong 
feeling,  and  on  such  a  subject ;  every  line  seems  to  me  to 
be  borrowed,  but  I  had  no  better  way  of  expressing  my 
thoughts,  and  I  never  have  the  power  of  altering  or 
amending  anythmg  I  have  once  laid  aside  with  dissatis- 
faction. 

"  Wby  is  he  wandering  on  the  sea  ? — 
Coleridge  should  now  with  Wordsworth  bo. 
By  slow  degrees  he'd  steal  away 
Their  woe,  and  gently  bring  a  ray 
(So  happily  he'd  time  relief,) 
Of  comfort  from  their  very  grief. 
He'd  tell  them  that  their  brother  dead, 
When  years  have  passed  o'er  their  head, 
Will  be  remembered  with  such  holy, 
True,  and  perfect  melancholy, 
That  ever  this  lost  brother  John 
Will  be  their  heart's  companion. 
His  voice  they'll  always  hear, 

His  face  they'll  always  see, 
There's  nought  in  life  so  sweet 

As  such  a  memory." 

The  excellence  of  Mary  Lamb's  nature  "vvtis  happily  de- 
veloped in  her  portion  of  those  books  for  children — "  wisest, 
virtuousest,  discreetest,  best," — whicli  she  Avrote  in  con- 
junction with  her  brother,  the  "Poetry  for  Children,"  the 
"  Tales  from  Shakspcare,"  and  "  Mrs.  Leicester's  School." 
How  different  from  the  stony  nutriment  provided  for  those 
delicate,  apprehensive,  affectionate  creatures,  in  the  utili- 
tarian books,  whicli  starve  their  little  hearts,  and  stuff  their 
little  heads  -with  shallow  science,  and  impertinent  facta, 
and  selfish  morals  !  One  verse  which  she  did  not  print — 
the  concluhiuii  of  a  little  poem  supposed  to  be  cxpre.--sed  in 
a  letter  by  the  son  of  a  family  "who,  v.hin  expecting  the  re- 
turn of  its  father  from  sea,  received  news  of  his  death,  re- 
cited by  her  to  Mr.  Martin  Burney,  and  retained  in  his 


LAST    EARTHLY    REMAINS.  327 

fond  recollection,  may  afford  a  concluding  example  of  the 
healtliful  wisdom  of  her  lessons  : — 

"  I  can  no  longer  feign  to  be 
A  thoughtless  child  in  infancy  ; 
I  tried  to  write  like  young  Marie, 

But  I  am  James  her  brother  ; 
And  I  can  feel — but  she's  too  young — 
Yet  blessings  on  her  prattling  tongue, 

She  sweetly  soothes  mj'  mother." 

Contrary  to  Lamb's  expectation,  ^Yho  feared  (as  also  his 
friends  feared  with  him)  the  desolation  of  his  own  surviv- 
orship, which  the  difference  of  age  rendered  probable,  Mis3 
Lamb  survived  him  for  nearly  eleven  years.  When  he  died 
she  was  mercifully  in  a  state  of  partial  estrangement,  which, 
while  it  did  not  wholly  obscure  her  mind,  deadened  her 
feelings,  so  that  as  slie  gradually  regained  her  perfect  senses, 
she  felt  as  gradually  the  full  force  of  the  blow,  and  was 
the  better  able  calmly  to  bear  it.  For  awhile  she  declined 
the  importunities  of  her  friends,  that  she  would  leave  Ed- 
monton for  a  residence  nearer  London,  wlirre  they  might 
more  frequently  visit  her.  He  Avas  there,  asleep  in  the 
old  churchyard,  beneath  the  turf  near  which  they  had 
stood  together,  and  bad  selected  for  a  resting-place  ;  to  this 
spot  she  used,  when  well,  to  stroll  out  mournfully  in  the 
evening,  and  to  tiiis  spot  she  would  contrive  to  ]ea<l  any 
friend  Avho  came  in  the  summer  evenings  to  drink  tea  and 
went  out  with  her  afterwards  for  a  walk.*      At  length,  as 

*  The  following  Sonnet,  by  Mr.  Mo.von,  written  at  thif  period  of  tranquil 
padoess  in  Miss  Lamb's  life,  so  beautifully  einl)odies  llio  reverential  lovo  with 
wliic^i  the  sleeping  and  tlie  [niiuriiiug  were  rcganled  by  one  of  ;heir  nearest 
friends,  that  I  gratify  ni.vseif  by  extracting  it  from  the  ehnrming  little  vu'.uuis 
61  jis  Sonnets,  which  it  adorns  : 

Here  sleeps  benentli  tlii.-'  bunk,  wire  dairies  ;;row, 
The  kiiiilliesl  sprite  ciirlb  boKls  wilbin  licr  brenst  • 
In  such  a  spot  I  would  t)ds  friinic  slioulj  rest, 

When  I  to  jdiii  my  fricud  lur  hence  shab  gi). 


328  LAST    EARTHLY    REMAINS. 

her  illness  became  more  frequent,  and  her  frame  much 
weaker,  she  Avas  induced  to  take  up  her  abode  under  genial 
care,  at  a  pleasant  house  in  St.  John's  Wood,  where  she 
was  surrounded  by  the  old  books  and  prints,  and  was  fre- 
quently visited  by  her  reduced  number  of  surviving  friends. 
Repeated  attacks  of  her  malady  weakened  her  mind,  but 
she  retained  to  the  last  her  sweetness  of  disposition  unim- 
paired, and  gently  sunk  into  death  on  the  20th  May,  1847. 
A  few  survivors  of  the  old  circle,  now  sadly  thinned,  at- 
tended her  remains  to  the  spot  in  Edmonton  churchyard, 
where  they  were  laid  above  those  of  her  brother.  With 
them  was  one  friend  of  later  days — but  who  had  become 
to  Lamb  as  one  of  his  oldest  companions,  and  for  whom 
Miss  Lamb  cherished  a  strong  regard — Mr.  John  Forster, 
the  author  of  "The  Life  of  Goldsmith,"  in  which  Lamb 
would  have  rejoiced,  as  written  in  a  spirit  congenial  with 
his  own.  In  accordance  with  Lamb's  own  feeling,  so  far 
as  it  could  be  gathered  from  his  expressions  on  a  subject 
to  which  he  did  not  often,  or  willingly,  refer,  he  had  been 
interred  in  a  deep  grave,  simply  dug,  and  wattled  round, 
but  without  any  affectation  of  stone  or  brick-work  to  keep 
the  human  dust  from  its  kindred  earth.  So  dry,  however, 
is  the  soil  of  the  quiet  churchyard  that  the  excavated  earth 
left  perfect  walls  of  stiff  clay,  and  permitted  us  just  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  still  untarnished  edges  of  the  coffin 
in  which  all  the  mortal  part  of  one  of  the  most  delightful 

Uis  only  mate  is  now  the  minstrel  liirk, 

Wbo  ohants  her  morniii!;  music  o'er  his  bed, 
Save  she  who  comes  each  evening,  ere  th';  bark  , 

Of  watch  liog  gathers  drow.sy  folds,  to  shed 
A  sister's  tears.     Kind  llcavon,  upon  hur  head, 

Do  thou  in  dove-like  );uise  thy  spirit  pnnr, 
And  in  her  aged  path  some  ficjwerets  spread 

Of  earthly  joy.  should  Time  for  her  in  store 
Have  weary  days  and  nights,  ere  she  shidl  greet 
Uim  wliom  slie  longs  in  Paradise  to  meet. 


LAST   EARTHLY   REMAINS.  329 

persons  wlio  ever  lived  was  contained,  and  on  which  the 
remains  of  her  he  had  loved  with  love  "  passing  the  love 
of  woman"  were  henceforth  to  rest ; — the  last  glances  we 
shall  ever  have  even  of  that  covering ; — concealed  from  us 
as  we  parted  by  the  coffin  of  the  sister.  We  felt,  I  be- 
lieve, after  a  moment's  strange  shuddering,  that  the  re- 
union was  well  accomplished;  and  although  the  true- 
hearted  son  of  Admiral  Burney,  who  had  known  and  loved 
the  pair  we  quitted  from  a  child,  and  who  had  been  among 
the  dearest  objects' of  existence  to  him,  refused  to  be  com- 
forted,— even  he  will  now  join  the  scanty  remnant  of  their 
friends  in  the  softened  remembrance  that  "they  were 
lovely  in  their  lives,"  and  own  with  them  the  consolation 
of  adding,  at  last,  "  that  in  death  they  are  not  divided  !" 


THE   END. 


